Dear Stranger,
You don't know me. And I don't know you. Maybe it's better that way. But then again, maybe we would be happier if we did know each other.
Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, with the sunlight streaming in the window, writing this letter for you. Hopefully I'll finish it by tonight, so that tomorrow I can take it to the coffee shop on the corner and drop it on the floor, or in your lap, or maybe in the lap of the person next to you so they can give it to you...because they don't seem like the type to read it, so they'll obviously just pass it on.
I like music - except terrible rap. And I love the written word more than most, it baffles some of my friends sometimes. I wonder, do you like to read? I have the tiniest tattoo I've ever seen, it's a tiny fairy on my ankle, but you can't see her unless you're looking for her and know where to look...like a real fairy, they're good at hiding too you know. I saw a fairy once. She was hiding behind the strawberries in my garden. I think she liked how they looked and tasted, because I found a few stems underneath the bushes where she had been, and a solitary strawberry among them with a few tiny nibbles missing.
So, my dear stranger, would you like to stop being strangers? I'll be at the coffee shop every tomorrow in the foreseeable future. Same time, same place? I'm the one with the amber eyes and café au lait skin.
Coffee?
A stranger.





















