8

Zeke—
This is my third attempt at a third letter. The first one—when I promised a total of three—was the easiest. It was spur-of-the-moment, a mere explanation of WHY. WHY is nothing; it’s meaningless. Thoreau had given me an example: Why I Went. I was seeking my own Walden Pond; I still loved you; I was sorry; it was just that simple.
I promised three letters, with three hundred sixty-four days in between. That gave you three hundred sixty-four days to mull over what I’d said, extract every possible meaning from them. Perhaps it wasn’t quite fair of me, but I’ve always been unsure that you hear me. And, admittedly, I liked the idea of building up the suspense.

Besides, you and I both know that I’ve always had better self-control than you. Scheduling the letters to arrive on your first day of classes was a method for me to implement my own control. That’s what I came here seeking, Zekester. But you already know that.
There are a lot of things you don’t know. For example, you may be wondering why this letter is early. You may be wondering at the relatively concise nature of this letter, the comparatively pathetic size of the envelope. You may be wondering where we go from here.
But here’s the deal, Z: I’m not ready to stop. In between my meditating and writing and learning simple truths out here in a land of anti-materialism, I’ve realized that I don’t want to stop writing to you. My three-letter promise was always more for you than for me. It offered you a way out, lest you need me to drop away.
I’ve been constantly thinking about my next letter. When I came here, I wanted to align myself with people who were looking for the same things as me. We were looking for a transcendental truth, not completely eschewing society, but tightening our clique. You’ve always been a city boy. I’m just not the same. I thought that meant I needed to reduce our contact; I could never have shut you out completely.
Here’s something I’ve realized: it was always about you. I’m not finished with you.
Don’t worry—I realize the magnitude of the assumption I’m making. It’s been two years since you’ve talked to me. It’s possible, likely, that’s you’re busy with another chapter, another girl, another life. Without me.
And I realize that I’m not the easiest person to get along with. I have too many words that I need to say, and I think far too much. I hypothesize instead of act. Two years have not put my actions behind my words, for the most part. Coming out here was the finest example of action I’ve got in over twenty years.
That’s a little pathetic. I think it’s high time to act again.
Now I’ll stop confusing you with all this unspecific prattle. Unless you’ve already thrown down my letter in disgust—which I’m not saying you haven’t—you want to know my real plan.
Directly between us (I had someone check my math, so I’m not a couple hundred miles off) is a town: Springfield, Indiana. No, not Illinois. Indiana. In Springfield there is a restaurant. I’ve enclosed the address in a scrap of paper at the bottom of this envelope. It’s separate, so you don’t have to see it unless you really want to, AND you can still finish the letter, if you want to.
On September seventh, at three thirty in the afternoon, I will be in this restaurant drinking a cup of coffee, which I have not done in two years.
If you come, you will find me there. It will be fitting that we come equal distance…or perhaps not. But I must warn you: if you come, you will not easily be rid of me again.
If you don’t come, I won’t begrudge you that. I’ll just melt into the background, the way an (possibly) ex-girlfriend ought to do.
That’s three weeks from now. Ample time for the letter to be delivered, and to think on it, but not too much time for you to dwell. You can’t say I don’t know you.
My hand shakes on these last words, with the possibility of seeing you again.
Until then (and ever after),
All my love,
Corinna

(I don't really know what's the deal with all this crazy formatting here.)