He sat alone on the flowered sofa in the small apartment where he lived. The letter that had been slipped under the door was in his hand. It came from her with the long black hair, down the hall.
The letter was purple and perfumed, and he inhaled.
The black turmoil in which he lived switched into the sweet darkness of space, and he flew past stars and planets, spinning on the vertical, the horizontal, catching glimpses of his far Earth now and again. He smiled and sought to sing.
He became a magic man, and it was better than anything he’d ever imagined.
Sitting stunned on the sofa for an unknown spell, he stood at last, stripping down to his skivvies and T-shirt, walking into the bedroom, pulling back the sheet, slipping under. He laid letter and envelope on the abutting desk.
It was a lifeline.
Lights out, he lay there. The purple, perfumed letter was so powerful that it sent warm waves over his heart and soul. After an hour or two — or ten weeks or a year, he realized he would never sleep.
He got up, pulled on pants, picked up the letter, the envelope, walked out into the hall and down the carpet to the trash chute. He liberated the perfumed letter and its lovely envelope into the air. No matter. The good was done.
Back in bed, he slept, knowing his life had begun.
* * * *
(This is the first of a sequence. The second was written years ago.)