Perfect Strangers

I guess the police came to me because I was her next door neighbour. They asked me if I had a key, and I told them that I did. She gave me one before she went on a ski trip with some friends last Winter. 

"Just in case of emergency," the note she put through the mail slot in my door read. With a little smiley face and a kiss underneath.

I stood sort of dumbly in my doorway, trying to put their words together in a way that made sense to me:

"June was hit by a car last night. She passed away."

I let them in and they took a bunch of stuff from her apartment away in boxes – her cellphone, paperwork, stuff like that – but it amazed me how much they left behind.

Later that evening I use the key, which the police return to me before they leave, to let myself into June's apartment.

It's a mirror of my own, except with some of the trappings of womanhood: Scrunchies scattered on a couple of surfaces. The smell of sandalwood from scented candles. More throw pillows than anyone could ever need. A white Starbucks mug marked with lipstick.

My eye is drawn to an ornamental box on her mantle, atop a fake electric fire that's the same as the one in my apartment. I wonder if the police didn't think it was important enough to take, or if it seemed too personal.

I already feel like a stranger trespassing in June's apartment like this, but there's something about the box that makes me want to open it. I walk across the fuzzy area rug and slide the latch to one side.

Inside the box is a small black notebook full of passwords, doodles and grocery lists. Tucked into the back of it is a wad of envelopes with letters poking out.

I carefully remove them and sit down on the rug. I open up the first envelope and start to read.

Dear June,

The suggestion that I write you letters, which has come up from time to time, is a weird one because I fail to see how I could ever sum up the way I feel about you. I've never exactly been a wordsmith.

Still, I guess I'll give it a try.

The word love doesn't feel the right one to describe the way I feel about you, because I've longed for you so long that to compare you with perfection verges on an insult.

This is already starting to sound like bad teenage poetry, so I'll stop before I embarrass myself any more.

Love,

Gus

I wonder whether Gus is an old boyfriend or something. I know that June lived alone, and I've never heard anyone coming over to her place. Maybe he's an old flame that never quite burnt out.

I always had kind of a crush on June, but was too shy to do anything about it. She just seemed so cool and confident, like she could brighten a room or a hallway just by floating through it the way she used to do.

I don't think it's hit me yet that I'll never see her face again. I open up another letter from the middle of the bunch.

Dear June,

I dreamt I saw you last night.

You were in a meadow wearing a white lace gown, with flowers in your hair. You looked...beautiful. I wish I could say more, but I still can't find the right words. Content, maybe. I wish I could feel that way.

You were dancing on your own to some old piece of classical music whose name I can't remember. Your eyes were closed. I tried to reach out and touch your hand. That's when I woke up. I miss you already.

Love,

Gus

Sometimes I would hear June listening to music through the shared wall of our apartments. Dolly Parton was a common choice. So was Turnover. And iann dior. She sure had eclectic tastes.

I pick up her Starbucks mug for a second, not quite sure what to do with it. After a minute I go and wash it up, thinking about how she was the last person to touch the faucet. The water runs too hot and I burn my hands.

I dry them off on a towel hanging over a handle on the oven door, walk back to the little box on the floor and pick out another letter.

Dear June,

My grandmother passed away a few days ago. The funeral was a small service, family only. She always used to joke that, at age 98, she'd have a quiet funeral because she had already out-lived all of her friends.

She left me $20,000 in her will. It's enough money to get me to you.

I feel bad spending so much money on something that my parents still think of as selfish, but I believe that my grandma would want this for me. For us.

She always said she wanted nothing more than to see me be happy. That's so close now I feel like I can almost taste it. I hope we can make her proud.

Love,

Gus

June never talked about her family. Not that we ever had much in the way of deep conversations beyond some small talk in the hallway.

She mentioned that her parents live in Portland once, but that was it. I got the feeling they also didn't get along. I do know that she never went home for the holidays, because I don't either. My step-dad and I don't exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things.

One Christmas I heard her shuffling around on her little Juliette balcony, just like the one jutting out from my living room. Pretending to watch TV, I could see the steam rising from her cup of hot chocolate (never coffee, she hates...hated coffee) and dissipating into the cool night air.

After a while I heard her sigh a little and go back into her apartment, clicking the latch on the glass door behind her shut.

I pick up the notebook in the box again and pull the final letter of the bunch out of it.

Dear June,

You're so close to me now that I can almost feel you. It's been so long coming but I still don't know exactly how I'll feel when I run my fingers across your smooth skin.

You're all I've ever wanted, and now you're almost here. And yes, that means that I'll lose something of myself. But I know that what I'm getting in return will be worth so much more than that could ever be.

Going to bed bright and early before the surgery tomorrow. I can't wait to wake up, look in the mirror and see you. The person I was always meant to be. Goodbye Augustus, hello June. 

All my love,

Gus