PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE:

Dearest Stefan,

You might not remember me. If not, I understand. It was a long time ago, after all, and much of life has been lived between that day and today. Perhaps many lives, many times over. Perhaps you've forgotten that passionate moment between us, and if so, I may actually envy you. Would my life have been easier had I found the strength to put all of this behind me? Certainly in ways, it would have been. But would chocolate taste so sweet, had I never met you? Would a papercut have its sting, a lily its scent, had I never known the joy of your arms, the musk of your sweat, the emboldening shiver of your seductive voice? I don't want to know the answer to those questions, which is why I'm writing to you on this gray April day.

It was April, late April, that day. I'd just had my flute professionally cleaned when I ran into you outside the music shoppe. You bumped into me, and I dropped my folder full of contemporary jazz sheet music. "I'm sorry, pardon my clumsiness," you apologized. And that was all it took.

I got pregnant, Stefan. And while Stefanie is the joy of my whole life, it was bittersweet. I showed her the tattoo of your face every day when she was a baby, before it stretched beyond recognition due to weight gain and had to be lasered away. She lights up every time she hears the tuba, and I have to conclude that she was born with your music in her blood. She also has a lot of moles on her torso, like you.

Has too much time gone by, sweet Stefan, for us to find each other again?

Please reply,
Begging,
Miranda