Dear Carmen

By Matthew Dexter

I hope this letter reaches you well. Hope we can conclude this matter with as much mutual, amicable respect as we can muster. Anything is possible. Don’t want to end up in the hospital again like that night you blacked my right eye and left me with thirty stitches across the bridge of my nose. Not cool. Pedestrians were gawking as we walked to the Emergency Room. But things have almost always been cordial and polite between us, even as we aspire toward different goals, separate lives, it would be astute if we could let cooler heads prevail and do what’s best for our daughter. Lotus might be an atheist, but just because she doesn’t believe in God doesn’t mean we don’t believe in her. 

I’m writing this note in the 2002 Cadillac Eldorado ETC. So the motor’s purring like a kitten as I write this letter, not to berate you, make you feel angry or anything, simply to say my last amends. I don’t want to confound you so I’ll keep the prose simple. Carbon monoxide is making me dizzy, but thinking about your Bikram Yoga poses in those pink sweatpants makes me stay focused. The intimate hundred and four degree incensed room with your Argentinean instructor, doing Dead Body, Cobra, Locust; poses that would make Lotus blush, postures that would inspire the pregnant Peregrine Falcon to crash into the glass of your home studio.    

When I saw the feathers on the deck and the miserable pigeons with paralyzed necks, should have taken this as an augury sign from the gods, a premonition of blood and bird guts, should have known what it would lead to. The present was the gift that kept on giving, two dead birds after every session. Could they hear your howls? I don’t want to give you any reason for consternation or concern, but there was a diminutive video camera embedded in the extra pink yoga mat on the wicker basket. It streamed live audio with high definition video to me at the factory on my iPhone, nothing cryptic about those steamy hour-long sessions of intrepid passion and flexibility. 

You didn’t do anything novel; it’s all been done before, no use writing about it. Don’t want to sound cynical, but I never trusted you. This whiskey is not what I need. This gas is a fairy’s way to die. Your nickname was Southern Comfort in college. Hold on a second. The toll lady beneath the bridge is so stoic, motionless, and statuesque as she swallows my quarters, looks at my wrinkled face like a troll, almost makes me wish I threw them in the white plastic basket instead.

I’m watching and listening to this morning’s session right now, parked under the bridge. Red Hot Chili Peppers sizzling as raindrops fall. My proximity to heaven is closer than you could ever imagine, just hoping the pen holds enough ink for me to sign my name. Bakasana and Cat Flow flippant remarks as you arch your backs in harmony with the wind. I listen to the din of sideways hail against my cracked windshield. How can we resolve our troubles baby? I loved you, your stoicism made me reticent when I came home at seven; I imagined his hands around your waist, fingertips digging into soft tight flesh to hold the perfect breathing pose, the garbage man outside emptying last night’s leftovers. 

My fingers are trembling as I finish this. How could you contravene our wedding vows beneath the cumulonimbus clouds? Remember that magic summer when we kissed beside the sea in Cyprus, Mediterranean cuisine, discarded champagne flutes and orange lobster shells strewn across the beach. The island was alive with hope I’m writing this letter instead of telling you in person because my body is waterlogged and don’t want you to be pugnacious, argumentative, contentious. You’d think a woman who practices yoga every day would be more flexible to other’s opinions, trifling as they may seem to a golden goddess who owns everything but the sun. The queen who bathes in turquoise bubbles doesn’t need to listen; just threads her needles with pinpoint precision, a surgeon’s perfectly manicured fingers, severing everything from exotic Parisian fabrics to the black matter of the solar system. It all floats down the drain in the end.  

It’s been a tumultuous affair from start to finish. The golf ball-sized hail has turned to sleet. The moment has arrived to crack the driver’s side window; listen to the majestic euphony of cool zephyr against my hairy earlobes. Can you hear me now? You said I was an ape in man’s clothes. Well, my pen is fading. Let me shake it up a bit. By the way: you can’t have the Eldorado. I know it was purchased under your name, registration entitles you to it, and you’re planning on picking it up tomorrow, but it’s sinking under the dirty lagoon. The leather will surely be ruined. Now I’m sending my final text message, already saved and edited: Protect our little angel. I’ll watch from above. Note under the rock where we first made love. 

Mahalo,
Don Mateo