A Letter of Possibility

I slide my eyes across the guy's profile. Tall. Handsome.

He describes himself as a cross between Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt.

A little full of himself, I think, glancing at his picture. He looks nothing like either of the two celebrities. Whatever previous girlfriend had made that comparison must have been crazy.

I exit out of Bill Hipp's profile and look up from my phone. The dry autumn breeze blows fallen leaves across the sidewalk. Brooding grey clouds carpet the sky, reminding me of how gloomy I feel.

In all of my ten years of dating experience, I have never managed to find a guy who captures me. I mean, really tugs at my heartstrings. Sure, I've been able to find men who look like they belong on the cover of Vogue. I've found men who carry around hundred dollar bills in their pockets just because they can. I even went out with a guy who offered to buy me a home in the Bahamas if I paid for dinner. I know I should have listened to my suspicions about him being a cheapskate when he stuffed a handful of the free salt packets into his jacket, but I gave in and paid. He left soon after and I haven't heard from him since.

No, the kind of guy I want isn't the kind who drives a Rolls Royce and wears snakeskin shoes.

I want someone who would love and care for me for every day that I am with him. A guy who will come home from a hard day's work and still be willing to rub my shoulders. A guy who brings me to McDonalds for a date instead of some fancy restaurant where they serve you a thumb-sized portion of caviar in a gold dish. A guy who doesn't laugh when I tell him I sell books for a living.

I sigh. Glancing back down at my phone as another profile pops up.

Seriously, how many single guys are there.

I look up again and realise that I have reached my destination. A red brick building with a broken window on the first floor and zip ties holding the shudders on. I smile. It's not much. In fact, it's hardly anything. But it's home. And after a long day of selling books and an infuriating amount of check ups on Tinder, it's all I want.

Well, no. Not all I want. I really want a friend. The more I think about it, the more I realise I yearn for a companion. Between the many dates I've been on in my six years of living in New York, I haven't even been able to find a decent group of girls to call friends.

I enter my apartment building and climb the stairs to the second floor where my funny green door stares at me from the end of the hall.

When I open it I am greeted by a small, white, rat-like dog who jumps up against my legs.

"Hi, Dumbledog," I say, patting him on the head affectionetly.

But aside from my dog, the the only other thing that greets me is the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, the dust spinning through the air, and the stack of mail on the table next to the door. I scowl, flipping through letters. A cellphone bill. An advertisement for a free hair thinning consultation.

At this one I reach my hand up and finger the top of my head. My brown curls do feel a little thinner. Just a reminder of the fact that I'm not as young as I once was.

I toss the advertisement aside, and my attention is pulled to the letter underneath. I frown. I don't recognize the return address, other than the fact that it is here in New York, but the name above it does finger at my memory. I purse my lips, curious.

Throwing aside my purse and jacket, I sit down on the couch and open the letter.

It's short and I skim through it quickly.

"Hey, Rachel," it reads "You might not remember me, but my name is Caleb and I was in your fifth grade history class. Your mom invited me to your birthday party that year and I remember watching you the whole time, even though you said nothing to me. I thought your were beautiful.

"Anyway, I found out that you are living here in New York, and as I recently moved here, too, and am looking for connections, I thought you might be interested in getting coffee sometime. Feel free to say no, just thought it might be fun to see you, considering we knew each other (if only slightly) back in Ohio. Let me know if you can.

"Caleb"

Reading it again, I realise that I do remember a Caleb. Caleb Washby. The tall boy with glasses, and braces, who always wore suspenders and talked funny because his nose was crooked.

I feel slightly guilty that I never talked to or got to know him, but I'm also flattered that he would reach out to me so confidently. I feel a surge of hope in my heart. Maybe there is a chance that we...

He included a phone number at the bottom of the page and I quickly text him. A short text in which I say hi, and that I do remember him, and a "yes" to his invitation. I finish the text with three exclamation marks, erase them, not wanting him to think me too hopeful. But I add them back on. I am hopeful, and I want him to know that I am enthusiastic about seeing him again.

It's awkward to feel so excited about a guy I hardly know, but I brush these feelings away. He isn't awkward writing to me.

He texts me back within three minutes with the address of the coffee shop where he wants to meet and the date. Next Friday. 3:00 pm.

I feel a thrill of excitment. The coffee shop he mentioned is the cheapest I know of. It doesn't cost you an arm and a leg to receive a watered down cup of coffee in a silver mug, and Caleb doesn't seem like a guy who would spend the arm and a leg to drink coffee out of a silver mug. He's just guy who still writes letters as though he lives in the 70's. Who probably still wears glasses and talks funny because of his crooked nose, and still wears suspenders (though part of me hopes he lost those). A guy who thought me beautiful in the fifth grade.

I giggle. The girlish sort of giggle that reminds me of the senior prom and getting asked out by the cute new boy in school.

I pick up Dumbledog.

"This could be it," I say, fingering his little ears. "This could be the guy I've been waiting for."

I jump up, filled with glee, and run out of my apartment, down the stairs, and out the front door, where I am greeted by fat drops of rain beginning to descend from the sky. I ignore them, spinning in a circle on the sidewalk, clutching a whining Dumbledog as I do.

My feet step lightly on the crackly brown leaves, and my hair sweeps the rain from my face as I twirl. I dance as I've never danced before while the drops turn into a downpour.

Ten years from now, I might regret ever getting coffee with bespectacled Caleb Washby, I might wish I'd never opened his letter, but for now, I have the prospect of a friend, and that is enough.

By the time I get back inside, I'm soaked to the skin and freezing cold. But because of Caleb Washby and his letter, my heart is warm, and that is all that matters.