Dear Perrier Pamplemousse Rose:
You are a dream of jovial bubbling refreshment. I’m getting out of a bad relationship with Vanilla Coke and you’ve been nothing but wonderful to me. You taste divine and I can’t get enough of saying your name: Pamplemousse. French for grapefruit. You, like my love itself, exude both irony and a richness of character not often found in bottled waters.
I love you.
I saw you today. You were lovely; all melted-Barbie doll pinks and oranges blending in a high, blazing blue sky. I’d forgotten you, you know. I had forgotten that in the light of day I can see the original detail of the homes on my favorite street, the layering of landscaping, the facets of ordinary things. While you were watching, a man (handsome, fiftyish) pulled out of his lot in his black BMW and paused at the curb. He got out of his car and walked to the lawn of his big, beautiful house, and took the paper off the lawn. It was just a simple thing but all these hours later, I am still thinking about it. And oddly, I remembered why I write. It was because after he left, I thought of the woman still in bed, in that big, beautiful house, and what she is thinking and doing. It is those kinds of musings that lead to books. So thank you for being so life-affirming. I will try to visit you more.
Dear MacBook Pro:
We were inevitable, you and me. You came into my life like a hurricane, upending everything I thought I knew about computers. You thrill me, vex me, puzzle me. I want to get inside and see what you’re really made of, I want to kiss your keys. I want to pull down your menus, explore your options and scramble your file directory… because I know you can handle it. You can handle anything I throw at you. You are strong and beautiful and I want to spend all day with my hands on you.
I can’t get enough.