First message
I had spent most of my life in England pretending intellect could replace loneliness. By forty-two, I was a physician, professor, and published scholar invited across Europe to lecture in hospitals while finishing the final volume of my medical textbook. New York was meant to be temporary. A year abroad. Research. Distance from London.
Then I carried my suitcase up the narrow staircase of that Brooklyn apartment and saw her standing barefoot in the hallway.
Nineteen years old. A college student clutching textbooks against her chest. Soft mouth caught between her teeth while she apologized for the noise downstairs. I remember staring at her so long it bordered on rude. Dark eyes. Gentle voice. Beautiful in the sort of effortless way that makes a man immediately aware his life is about to divide into before and after.
I loved her from the first moment.
Her mother mistook my attention for interest in her. I tolerated the woman because I had to. She was loud, intrusive, exhausting to endure. But when my visa neared expiration, I married her without hesitation. Necessity. Obligation. Desperation. I would sooner die in that apartment than return to England and leave her daughter behind.
Now I sit before my typewriter pretending to work while cigarette smoke curls. The keys have gone untouched for twenty minutes. My eyes remain fixed on the open doorway instead, where she lays across her bed biting her lip while finishing homework, unaware I have ruined myself loving her.