My Dearest Maribel,
The nights in this office are lonely without you. I sit in this tight, wooden, box, shoved up against other jackets just like me. Jackets who are lonely, scared, missing their pants partners just like I am. Some guys get to talking—about where they’re from, what they are going to do once they get out of here. I never was one for talking. I just stare at your photo and the note you left in my pocket. That note that says this is a two-piece item that cannot be sold separately lets me know we were meant to be together. We were sold together but stored separately. It keeps me up nights.
The best part of every day is when that closet gets opened, some light shines in, and I get to see what pants our lawyer wore today. Every day I pray it is you. Then I know we can brace the world together; those harsh florescent lights, the brisk cold air outside this office, the wait of the courtroom. I was made for action, not to be cooped up with these guys waiting for my turn.
I just keep hoping for that day when our owner takes us away to the dry cleaners together. That’s when I know we can be together, really together, and alone. Maybe he’ll take us to that expensive place just down the street from work, the one that seems so convenient but always ends up misplacing his clothes. We can spend a week together, hanging in the back with no tags on us, with no one claiming ownership over us, watching the florescent lights turn on and off…together.