Returned With Notes
romanceEveryoneThe blue pen answered with a name. 'I'm Sam. The gray house with the terrible lawn — that's on me, not the lawn's fault.' 'I found your book on my worst week and your notes felt like company. I wrote back before I could stop myself.' 'You don't have to do anything with this. The margins are enough. But now you know.' A name and a house. Forty steps from mine.
I don't write back. I walk. Forty steps, one deep breath, knock. Sam opens the door holding — I swear — the same blue pen. 'You're black-pen,' Sam says. Me: 'You're terrible-lawn.' 'It's a fixer-upper.' A pause. 'So was my week, when I found your book. Come in? I have questions about page 88.' I stayed two hours. The lawn is still terrible. We read on the porch anyway, most evenings, trading one pen back and forth.