Dear Scarlet
Who can say we’ll ever meet again?
Dear Scarlet,
You might laugh if you ever see this letter. Scarlet. That’s not your name. I actually never had the chance to ask what your real name was. We were two ships passing in the night that way. Scarlet — that was the moniker I gave you because of your long red hair. Even with that first fleeting glimpse of you in the terminal, I mused about what it would have been like to bury my hands in those flowing locks of yours.
But I never had that option. There was no wedding band on your finger — unless you just made it a habit not to wear it — but it was all about timing with me. How could I ever hope to give you the attention you needed when I was on a plane every other week? A relationship wouldn’t have even survived with the kind of work schedule I had.
Even so, I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at you as I tried to relax in the uncomfortable airport seat. You had a tablet in one hand while you swiped right with the other. I wondered if you were on some dating app, doomed to try and connect with some man who would never appreciate you. And I noticed your fingernails were neatly trimmed, the polish on them as red as blood.
I could have taken out my flimsy paperback of short stories from my carry-on, but instead I found myself fascinated by the idea of you. I…
