LETTER TO A STRANGER
In 2013, Off Assignment began asking writers a simple question: "Who haunts you?" They responded in droves. They wrote letters.
I watched silhouetted monkeys jump between ornate rooftops as white flames were strung out along the river like eerie street lamps. Men with long sticks stoked these fires, imploring them to burn hotter.
When the lot of you looked at me in the pub, aggressive in your appraisal, I felt delivered, full of purpose. This trip was an experiment in my new late-thirties life, one where I’d left behind my partner of ten years and our city of Chicago.
Loneliness became a familiar friend until you turned up. On first sight, despite how trippy you looked (were you a mystic or a traffic cone? I couldn’t tell), I knew you were a kindred spirit.
I have to admit, for a duck, you looked ordinary to me at first. But what you were doing wasn’t ordinary: you were swimming up to a mirror and gazing at yourself, as if you’d locked eyes with something wonderful.
You were trying to put your chin on my lap but you were still too small, kid, so you just smiled and asked me for a peso—our first conversation that I keep coming back to.
In America certain women can wander a little longer, particularly when the combination of their education and adventurous personality is buffeted by the privilege of money or connections.
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"...And writing is, in the end, that oddest of anomalies: an intimate letter to a stranger."