Letter: September 9

Dear Mr. Ineffable Baritone,

Ha ha! I remember in that precious twenty hours, we had breakfast, you and I. I was trying my best to be a possibly engaging person for you to spend your day with, and asked you quite impulsively whether or not people liked you? And you looked up from your tea with that face of yours, that signature expression, and you answered flatly,

"Not really."

I wanted to take a picture and stop time forever. It was too good. It was that one moment that made me realize exactly who you are. Exactly the way your thoughts stream throught that magnificent mind of yours... and oh how they do. Ha. Well, I'm sure you know what I mean. I asked you why it was and you just peered at me over your cup with your dark eyes which eased, if just for a moment, in amusement at the sound of my thoughtless inquiry. And you told me you weren't so sure yourself.

"Intimidation," I couldn't help but to squeak it, "is overwhelming. It can make people feel bitter..."

"Intimidation? You think that is the problem, do you?"

"It's likely."

You lowered your gaze and focused dutifully on watching the steaming dark liquid ripple over itself in your porcelain mug. Your expression was easygoing, contemplative, mildly exhausted. I remember it well, although you do not. You are probably reading these cluttered garbles and wondering whether or not I'm just making all of this up, but I'm not. This is how I saw it. This is how it went.

No matter how much time passed, you yourself never turned to an unpleasant phase. I looked at you, your easy and graceful stride, and I couldn't find the coldness they speak about. There was no razor-edge or strange distance they warned me about, or rudeness or adruptness or alienation. Perhaps I am blind, I thought at first. Perhaps I'm seeing only what I want to see. Was I? Were they all right in saying that you're not a kind person? Even if I was, I truly can't believe it in my heart. My brain can tell me, "You're just being blind and it's all wishful thinking. Nothing is ever what it seems." And something else inside me tells me, "He's himself. Whoever he is, it doesn't quite matter. Because he's himself." And that's how I settled on it. I can admit sadly that I don't know you well enough to come to a conclusion. But in twenty hours, you did not show me coldness. You showed me gentleness, charm and a small flame of strong conviction burning beneath your wise and weathered eyes. I would steal your eyes and lock them in some gothic rusting token box and whenever I opened it I would be reminded of how you looked when you said, "Not really."

So you believed that you are not liked?

And I believe that I am emotionally blind?

Then I watched your face twist into a bitter smirk and you gave me the rest of your lemon cookie and told me, "Let's get going. It's going to be a long day." And we slipped out of our breakfast cafe and ducked around the side of the building so you could show me the paintings and tell me the stories about them.

And I really do think it is intimidation. You make people go eiher very white or very red and they stare at their feet and mumble, or they'll ramble rampantly to you in order to compensate for their obvious lack of esteem compared to you. They become uncomfortable. Do not ever believe that it's because you are "cold". The fact is, my friend, that you are stately and well-composed and venerable. You carry yourself with the gravitas of a much older person, you voice is likethunder. You strike awe in people. You strike awe in me.