Picture Postcards

The postcard is waiting for me when I get home from work. It’s tucked in with a few bills, a letter from my mom, and an ad from Wal-Mart that I just toss away. The letter I put aside, and I shuffle through the bills, disinterested. Then I see it.

A glossy beach at sunset, a couple holding hands, walking along the surf. Love in L.A., it reads in a flourish script across the orange sun. I don’t know anyone in Los Angeles. I turn the postcard over, and my heart freezes at the tight black words scrawled on the other side.

I miss you. Everything about you. About us. I hate living this lie.

My address in the block letters I remember so well. A smudged thumbprint beneath the stamp. The cryptic message -- I miss you -- and nothing else. No return address. Nothing to tell me who it’s from.

As if I didn’t know. My throat closes as I read the message again. I miss you.

Jesus, I think. I miss you, too, Greg. Where the hell are you now?