What do you do before you go to sleep at night? I want to know. Do you fix yourself a glass of warm milk, or a big cup of ice water? Do you bring your sketchpad into your bed, etching the images that you see before you close your eyes? Or do you turn the lamp on dim and prop your pillows up so that you can read? What do you like to read these days? Can you hear the voices of the characters over the loud bustle of the TV show that he inevitably has on? You probably can. You’ve always been great at drowning out the annoyances. Do you still follow Oprah’s Book Club? I read the one you were talking about before, actually. Picked it up at the library last week and finished it in three days. “A Million Little Pieces,” right? I liked it a lot.

What do you look like when you sleep? I want to know. Does your hair climb down your arms and cover fall over your face? Or do you pile it up into a messy bun? It would be hard to sleep with a bun, though. Unless you sleep on your side, I guess. Do you sleep on your side? Do you put one hand under the pillow and curl your knees up? Do you roll around, or do you find comfort instantly? How long does it take you to fall asleep? Do you think you’d be comfier in the nook of my shoulder? I do.

What do you usually dream about? I want to know. Do you imagine yourself sitting outside a terrace overlooking a beautiful garden in a house that he never knew you wanted? Do you ever have nightmares? Like you’re running, running fast, from something you don’t know. Or to something you don’t know. Do you wake up panting, trying to catch your breath, relieved that it was only a dream? Is he there to comfort you, or does he just grunt and roll over? Or do you dream about just plain old crazy things, like Dwight bringing an octopus into work and harvesting its ink to save profits? Actually, I guess that’s not so crazy. Do you ever dream about me? That would be crazy.

What do you look like when you wake up in the morning? I want to know. Are you as beautiful as you are when you come into work? Do you get morning breath like the rest of us? Sometimes I think you’re too angelic to be plagued by that stuff. I bet you don’t see it. You look in the mirror and roll your eyes, hopping in the shower and then getting out and pat on some makeup or shit that he tells you you need. You never needed it.

What do you wear on weekends? I want to know. Do you stay in your pajamas all day, crawling into the corners of your couch with a blanket and a bowl of cereal for every meal? Are your pajamas the matching cotton kinds, with pink stripes and purple butterflies? Or do you put on sweatpants and a tee shirt, just in case he needs you to make a beer run? I hope you pick up some canvases on your way out, then. And some paint, too.

What do you think about when you’re bored? I want to know. Do you pine for easier times, like when you were a kid and the worst thing that happened was falling off the tire swing? Do you think about things you need to do today? Laundry, grocery shop, cook him dinner. Do you think about work, and stress out about things that are Michael’s problems but seem to have become yours? Do you think about work a lot? I do. But not the work really-- just some of the people. Well okay, not some of the people. Just one of them.

What do you feel like when you sit down at your desk every day? I want to know. Are you tired, frustrated, sad? When Angela says you made copies wrong, does it still set you over the edge? Or are you used to it by now? I don’t ask you to make copies anymore. I don’t even really go by your desk anymore. I can’t. How can you? How can you sit at that desk every day, with a front row view of the single most tragic moment of my life? Is tragic the right word? It sure feels like it. Like a tragic car accident, you don’t want to look as you pass by but you can’t help it. I don’t want to relive your touch, the gentle togetherness of our lips, every moment of every fucking day, but I can’t help it. God, you were so beautiful that night. So tragically beautiful.

What do you think of when you relive that night? I want to know. Do you ever relive it at all? Do you remember those two words you said to me, those two words that did more damage than any of Dwight’s nun chucks, star throwers, or ninja swords could ever do? Those two little words that swirled off your strawberry lips: so lightly, so honestly, so caught off guard. I can’t. They flew like daggers into my heart, and at the moment, I wondered how it was possible that I was even still alive. Did you know what you were doing to me then? Did you know the hold you had on me?

What do you remember about the kiss? I want to know. Do you remember kissing me back? I don’t remember much from that night, and I really don’t remember anything from after that night, but I remember you kissed me back. Why did you do that? Why did you make me think I had a chance, only to rip it away again three minutes later? Why did you let me in? My lips were hungry for so long, starving actually, for you. You gave me a taste and it was sweeter than I had ever imagined. Your lips were softer than anything, and I thought I was going to melt so I grabbed onto you in support. I held you, anchoring my hands to the swell of your hips both to support myself from the sheer magnitude of the situation and to keep you close to me. You pulled away though. Why? Why did you put your hands in mine, your sweet, delicate, hands, only to save them for him? Did you notice how I tried to hold on to your finger? Did you notice how damned hard I tried to keep you?

What do you see in him, anyway? I want to know. You broke up with him before, and I was so proud, but now you’re back together. Does he make you laugh like I do? It seems like he makes you cry more often. Is it because you have a past together? Are you trying to hold on to the memories of high school football games and prom? That wasn’t fair to me. You loved him by circumstance, and you never gave your past up to give your future with me a try. Or are you just back with him because I’m with her? I can’t really explain that one. She’s not you, you know that. You know there is no one else in the world I could possibly love as much as I love you, even if we aren’t or never will be together. But you told me no, and I had to at least try. Being away from you made it easier, but when I came back I knew there was no hope. There’s no getting over you. I was going to break up with her and then I saw you with him again. What’s the point? I thought you wanted to be with me too, and then… I don’t know.

What do you think our hands would look like interlaced? I want to know. Would your fingers lay comfortably in the crevices of mine? Would our palms be sweaty, and if they were, would you bring it up? I sweat when I’m nervous. Would your hand rest gently in mine, or would you be gripping on for dear life? I would be. I held your hand once before, but not tight enough. You slipped away. If I ever get the chance to even touch yours again, I’m not letting go. I’m gonna hold on so tight that you’ll see every vein of my arm muscle pop out, as if I’m weight training or something. Would you hold on forever too?

What do you like when you make love? Have you ever really made love? I don’t think he knows how. It’s not an insult to you, it’s just… I don’t think he loves you like I do. Does he cradle you afterwards, kiss you on the lips, and comb through your hair? Does he listen to what you say; does he do what you like? I would. I wouldn’t even care about myself; I would just want to make you happy. Does he look into your eyes and tell you that you’re the only person for him, that you’re made for him, that he’s made for you. He can’t. It would be a lie. I’m made for you. I know it.

What do you think our children would be like? I want to know. Would they have your hair, your warmth, your artistic talent? Would they have me height and my affinity for sports? I hope they get your nose; no kid should have to live with one like mine. I hope they get most of you, actually. You’re just better than me. You’d be a better parent, too—much more understanding. Would we be good parents? We could take them to the park every Saturday and push them on the swings as we held hands behind them. We could help them with their math homework, I mean, until they get to high school and start calculus. You could bake with them. I’d help them lick the spoon. We could wash the dishes together, walk upstairs and tuck them into bed, and then sneak upstairs and practice making another one. Do you want that? Do you need that like I do?

I need to know if I’ll ever know.

Do you still eat that ham and cheese sandwich for lunch every day? I want to know. I never see you when you eat lunch anymore—I tried once, but her uninviting stares jeered me away. I watched helplessly as she took out a brown paper bag and passed it to you. Did it have ham and cheese in it? It used to be your favorite, but I wonder if your sandwich tastes have evolved, too. Maybe she makes you something else, like pastrami on rye bread drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Does she cut it diagonally for you and trim the crusts? I don’t know why I even ask, but I just remember that day that we made lunch for each other and wonder if she’s better than I was. I cut off all the crusts because you always used to leave them carelessly on the cellophane wrap, and I figured I’d save you the trouble. You made me a yogurt parfait, hand-slicing the strawberries and bananas. I never saw you with crusts after that day.

Do you still take the long way home from work? I want to know. I never walk out with you now, so I don’t know which direction you turn. Are you in a hurry to get home these days? To clean up, make dinner, get her undressed and into bed? You seem like you’ve been living life in the fast lane, but I wonder if you ever slow down and just walk around with no purpose like you used to. Remember when you gave me a ride home from work that day, and you took all the routes I never knew existed? You showed me the pre-school, and the park, and then you pulled over and forced me to stand with you on the rickety stone bridge over that pond and just listen. I don’t hear anything, I had said. You told me that if I listened close enough I could. I rolled my eyes at you and told you that you were corny as you shrugged it off. Now I go there every day after work, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll see you there, because I want to tell you that I hear it now. I can finally hear what you told me listen for. But you’re never there. You don’t want to listen anymore.

Do you still call your Mom every night before bed? I want to know. Sometimes you would call me at night, around 7, remembering the little things that you forgot to say at work. We could have talked forever, but you would always let me go at 8:30 because your mom was waiting by her phone for that much anticipated ring. I’d call you a Mama’s boy, but secretly I thought it was really cute. Does she like when you talk to your mom? Does she listen in, and lay back in content as she pictures your future children doing the same? Or does she ask you to put it on speaker phone, so she can help your mom pick out new carpet patterns? Does she even let you talk to her at all? I’ve seen the way she talks to you, not letting you do anything without her permission. Maybe she says that 8:30 is Karen time, or reading time, or Scrabble time. All I know is that 7 is no longer Pam time.

Do you still play basketball on the weekends? I want to know. You used to invite me to join you and Mark when you knew that Roy would be jet-skiing with his brother and I would be home alone. I would pretend to be bothered by your early morning call, but I loved to watch you play, and even more so I loved to throw the ball at you when you weren’t looking (though you always seemed to catch it anyway). And when Mark slept at his girlfriend’s, we would always play one-on-one. You’d go easy on me, but I would play pretty tough on you (I can now admit those were some pretty blatant fouls). You’d stand behind me and adjust my arms to help my form. It was ninety degree weather, but when your fingers brushed against me, every hair on my body would stand straight up like I had just been rendered clothes-less in the middle of Antarctica. Then we’d get back to game formation, and our bodies would crash against each other in the middle of the play, your sweat staining my shirt. I pretended not to notice when my lips pushed against your chest during that lay-up, but as I tasted the traces of a sweet saltiness, I froze wondering if your lips would mimic the taste. You probably play with her now. I could see her tying her hair back in a loose pony, as she brushes the sweat off her forehead and pulls up her baggy shorts that are most likely yours. I bet you lift her up to dunk it, and give her a congratulatory kiss after each point. She’s probably in better shape than me, and you wouldn’t have to constantly take those five minute water breaks that always turned into half an hour conversations about nothing.

Do you still know what you want to be when you grow up? I want to know. You were always so adamant that this was not your career, that you were destined to do something less “papery,” as you had so eloquently put it. We discussed your options over lunch for three hours one day, prompting Michael to ask us if we had taken an afternoon delight upon strolling into the office so late in the afternoon. We looked at each other, both of us blushing furiously, as you mumbled something to Michael about being wildly inappropriate. I descended down to my desk, trying hard as hell to make sure that no one could tell I was playing the images of an afternoon delight with you in my head like a slideshow. My eyes glazed over with desire as I retreated into this parallel universe, one that I tried repeatedly to convince myself that neither of us wanted to exist. The ringing of the phone snapped me out of it and directed my attention towards another ring: one that I had strategically twirled so that the haunting diamond was pointed down. I stared at you as I recited the same lines, watching you as you clicked furiously with one hand while leaning backwards and extending the other hand behind your head. I hoped you were looking up job applications like we had mentioned, but you were probably playing Minesweeper. I decided to forward you some information about the sports section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, hoping to get you a head start on your dream career of sports writer. It seems like so long ago now. We’re both still here, and you’re rapidly advancing in the company thanks to her prowess. Does she even know that you want to be a sports writer? Or is it just what you wanted to be?

Do you still want any of the things that you used to? I want to know. Last Christmas, you e-mailed me your Santa list after I sent you mine. I gave you the raised eyebrow as soon as I saw that the first three items were Xbox, Wii, and PlayStation 3 (in that order). Your lips curled into that upwards smile as they so often do, as I asked you first if you thought I was made of money and second where you found the Elixir of Twelve Year Old. You rattled back that there were adult games that were actually really fun, as I continued to look at you questionably, arguing back that you just used “adult games” as a defense. We laughed together and returned to our work as I looked on eBay for used/discounted game consoles. I found a PlayStation for 30 bucks, and even though it was only PlayStation 1, I figured it would do. You never knew, though, because on the day it was delivered I came home to find that Roy had unpacked it and set it up for himself. I decided to not even bring it up, realizing that as a good fiancée I probably should have given it to him anyway. But I never wanted to. I never wanted to give anything to him, I wanted to give it all to you.

Do you still remember what you said to me that night? I want to know. That night, you know which one I’m talking about, the night that neither of us will forget because it was the single most important night of our lives so far. The night that was short of conversation but nothing short of passion and deliverance, with our bodies speaking more than we would ever have to. You said you wanted me, and you proved that you wanted me. I knew it was real then, but now I’m not so sure. You used to look at me every day like I was the only person in the world, but ever since that night you don’t look at me at all. You spoke of heartache and true love, and I thought you meant it. How could you mean it, though? How could feelings like that disappear so soon, if even at all? I changed for you, but you turned away from me. I gave up everything for you, everything that you asked, but you said it was too late. The impossible desires of time-machines and do-overs are written in graffiti across the back of your neck, and I stare at them each and every day. Pathetic, I know. I still dream of it all, of the fire when our lips touched, but it twists into smoke as I turn on the lights. It won’t ever be like that again, it can’t ever be like that again, because you’re with her now. But all I can think is that it would be so easy, if you would just let it.

Do you still want me? I want to know. I’m ready to give you all of me now, and I have been since I watched from the window as you drove away into the darkness of the night. Under the fluorescent lights of a parking lot in Scranton, I found myself. I discovered who I am and what I need. Most artists don’t do that until they’re forty, but you helped me do it that day. You taught me who I am, who you are, and who we are. You taught me that I need you. Not in a dependent, provide-for-me or I-want-someone-to-snuggle-with kind of way. The kind of way where I just need you to wake up. Need to have you by my side to have the strength for each day, need to have you to share my life with, need to have you so that I can love you. I promise I can. I didn’t think it was possible to need someone with every inch of your body. For every once selfish breath to now be devoted entirely to someone else. For every thought to revolve around their life, and for every stupid, rambling diary entry to be about nothing but one person. If that scares you, then I’m sorry. It scares me even more, to know that the oxygen of my life wants nothing to do with me, leaving me gasping for air in this hell of a life I have created for myself. I know it’s my fault, and I will never forgive myself, let alone expect you to forgive me. But if I could just know that you want to try, well that would be fucking amazing.

I need to know if I’ll ever know.