A Love Letter
November 18th, 2005Dearest Peggy,
This may or may not come as a surprise to you, but I think I’m in love with you.
Please don’t throw away this letter before you read it. It took me three years to work up the courage to write; it would anguish me to learn that my worry amounted to nothing.
I fell in love with you the moment you first sauntered into the diner. You comport yourself with a confidence that precedes you. It takes physical strength to heft a frame such as yours, but walking is more than mere ambulation for you. Your movement indicates a genuine care for every muscle’s action. Every jerk forward; every time you heave yourself onto the stool, making it disappear beneath your beauty; every time you take a long series of drags on your Ultra-Lites — it is apparent that “grace” was a word invented for you.
Remember that first night? You ordered two plates of blueberry pancakes. No syrup, extra butter. Each bite was a tiny orgasm, a crepe de coit, if you will. Watching the butter cascade down your lips, then ascend back inside with a slight, audible intake of air… let me tell you, I almost proposed to you right there.
I have those plates of griddle cakes ready for you every day. I know you like them slightly burnt — the closer they are to a deep auburn (the very color of your left eye), the more pronounced your moans and smacks become. Each groan is a compliment to the chef.
I was swept away even before I knew what a thoughtful, brilliant woman you are. Between plates, you talked at length about that year’s iteration of Music Television’s masterpiece, The Real World. You broke down every relationship like it was your own. When Cory caught Cody canoodling with a common harlot at the dance club, I weeped internally. Yes, I weeped for Cory’s shattered heart, but I weeped mostly for your unadulterated empathy. You spoke lovingly about Cory, and harshly about Cody. I vowed never to be like Cody. Not once have I been brash or cocky. Not once have I taken ecstasy and assaulted a cameraman. Not once. For you.
You opine about politics with a tongue as silver as Daniel Webster’s. Before you came along, I never considered that public schools were to blame for sexually transmitted diseases. Now, consider me convinced. Not many orators can advance a point as well as you, much less to do so between bites. In fact, I would guess that you could outwit Oscar Wilde over four stacks of pancakes.
Daily I have watched you lovingly consume my every griddle cake for three years. It has been a privilege to be near you for so long. But after a certain period, that privilege has turned to frustration. Have you any idea how excruciating it is to be so near the one you love, but to be separated from her by a formica counter? My professional duties to you as server and chef have made that separation unbearable.
O Peggy, how I pine for thee. It is my ardent wish that your admiration for me is one-tenth that of mine for you. You would make me the happiest man in the tri-state area if you could make some room on your moped for me. Rest assured that if you accept my proposal, I will continue to make you pancakes. The difference, of course, will be that the formica barrier will be no more.
Awaiting your reply,
Your Aproned Admirer