A Letter

by stephen hastings-king


I write to you from waiting for the world to end.  I will leave this in a desk drawer.  I sat here for many years.  The buyout transformed it into furniture. 


I put the best face on things. I adhere to routine.  I do not discuss it. Sometimes I think about buying a gun.  But I do not know what I would do with it.  


The future used to look like the present except a little bigger like it was in a mirror.  I felt like I could walk to it.


Lately, I have started going to a different bar.  It is long and narrow and smoky.  It is lit with Christmas lights and has Madonnas and tinsel and country music.  I listen to the jukebox. I think about furniture.  I drink until continuity breaks.


I do not know what it will be like on the far side of the end.  It makes me anxious.  I wanted to say that to someone.  So I write to you.  I do not know who you are.