John looked out towards central park from the glass wall. The steady stream of headlights and street lamps flowed like arteries to the island's core. For the eighteenth time that night, he fixed his cuffs and pulled the lapels of his suit together.

A full day of press exhausted him. His eyelids sat heavy, his back slouched. The last day of his book tour coincidentally ended at home. John held the worn envelope in his hands, caressing the paper with his fingertips.

"John, they're ready for you now." Said his assistant.

He nodded, "Alright I'll be right there."

The old paper felt smooth, her scent still lingering on the lipstick mark on the cover. John put the letter back into his pocket, and climbed onto the stage. The auditorium was filled, people spilled out onto the aisle, sitting cross legged like kindergarteners in class.

"When I wrote this story 13 years ago, there was no structure, I didn't pay attention to character development, or the grand imagery that my great grandfather had used when he wrote his books. There wasn't any climax or rising actions, there was just...her."

.....

A crisp wind breezed through Manhattan, between taxi cabs and high rises it flowed, carrying with it the first sign of summer.

John sat on the fire escape, staring blankly at his computer screen, the cursor blinking, waiting to form words. The summer wind caught his robe, opening it and exposing his bare chest and the purple boxers he deemed “lucky”. New York roared with life from the pavement below. Men in suits hailed for cabs, women talked rapidly through their cell phones, children held hands and sang songs as they walked to the museum.

“The inexhaustible variety, of life..."John whispered as he typed. Another sentence stolen. He shook his head as his finger tips pressed down the backspace key. It was hard to be a writer, especially with the shadow that was cast over him some 90 years ago. Every idea, every word written with pen and keypad felt as if it were not his, but his great grandfather’s.

"F. Scott Fitzgerald" read the plaque, embellished into the frame of a dusty old picture hanging in the hallway. With the exception of the pinstriped suit and comb over, John reflected his great grandfather's stern eyes and bridged nose.

With a loud sigh, John’s face fell into his hands as the summer wind came and blew his robe open again.

“Nice nipples.” A woman said from the opposite building.

He struggled to get his robe folded across his chest. “S***…” he whispered.

“It’s ok, I’ve seen worse. I mean I’ve seen three on one person so there’s that.”

“Well I don’t have three but I’ve been told I have dynamite areolas.”

Their laughs filled the sky, rising above the concrete jungle, over the slamming doors and honking horns.

Through his ebony rimmed glasses, John stared at the woman as she watered her plants, her oversized shirt blew with the wind. She was a young girl; her hair was short and light brown. Veins popped from her tan arms as she lifted the heavy pale of water.

"Anna."

"John."

Anna smiled as she retreated back into her apartment. Halfway through the window sill, she shot him a slow wave.

"I'll see you around." he said.

The clicking of keys being mashed frantically rang through his ears. Structure was ignored, and so were the spelling mistakes. Finally, he found words that were his own, words that had never been read or written like the way he wrote about this mysterious girl from across the way.

A heat wave arose throughout New York City, igniting the increase of demands for ice coffees and freezies. In the small coffee house around the corner from his apartment, John sat with the frozen beverage, wiping away the sweat from his brow and the miniscule drops on his laptop key board.

Focused on the screen, John ignored door chimes that rang as Anna walked in. The cold air slowly kissing the sweat of her neck as she sat next to him.

"Hey neighbour." Her voice was startling, it was strong and bold, yet soft. "so, why is it that every time I see you, you're on that laptop?"


"I'm writing a book, it's about-"

She grabbed his arm. " you know, you could probably tell me over dinner...if you don't have any plans."


John paused, stunned, and looking for words. After a minute's silence and searching for the right response, he replied, "Yeah."
.....

For thirteen years, his cramped apartment stayed the same. The old picture frames that Anna hung, littered the walls, almost covering the art deco wallpaper completely.

John fell atop the bed, laying on the left side as he always did. With his eyes closed, John reached for the envelope in his suit jacket. With trembling hands he opened it for the first time.

John,

Happy 3 years. I'm so sorry you had to spend your birthday at the hospital, especially with all the tubes and wires hooked up to me. You once told me that it killed you to look at me like this, yet you keep coming back. I guess you might be crazy or something.

When I'm asleep, and the beeping from the monitors leave my ears, I hear your heart, and your steady breathing. I feel the warmth of your chest and the security of your arms, every night I dream of you, even when you're in the chair next to me. When you walk out of the hospital the day after it happens, I don't want you to cry or be angry, the life you gave me is more than anyone could ask for. Go out and travel, publish that book, jump from helicopters and swim in the ocean, find a girl, have children. I hope our adventures were as good for you as they were for me. I love you.

Forever yours, faithfully
Anna

Tears streamed from his eyes, the sound of cars and people from the street below drowned out by the sound of his sobs.

"I love you too." He whispered.