Jack Anders sat at the dining table, his usual seat. He looked up at the empty chair opposite him, Kira's chair. He was waiting for it to dry, the varnish usually took two to three hours. He looked at the clock, still another two hours to go. He knew deep down it was just a veneer, that he was using the varnish as a cover for what he was really waiting for. Thinking about the Varnish drying on Kira's chair was a distraction from thinking about the letter he knew it was time to write.
He had everything laid out in front of him with military precision, the pen perpendicular to the paper, every piece of paper aligned in its pile, not one centimetre out of place. The irony wasn't lost on Jack Anders that all the years in the army, all the times he's had to debrief his superiors with bad news, descriptions of failed missions, account for loss of life, yet he still couldn't bring himself to write letters to his wife.
His palms were cold and clammy, he tried to blame the cold weather but knew it was fear. The fear of not knowing what to write, knowing that every word would be from the heart, open and honest, the real Jack Anders. He looked at the chair again, wished really hard that the clock had somehow skipped a couple of hours. Maybe he should stand up and touch it, test its tackiness. he knew he was procrastinating, Kira wouldn't stand for it if she had been there with him.
Jack picked up the pen, looked at it, the black ink inside the clear plastic tube. It didn't move, it wasn't as if he expected it to, he pressed the nib to the paper and watched the words flow, simple and ineffective words that held no significance and meant absolutely nothing. He'd ripped the paper from in front of him and screwed it into a ball, the tight knot of paper in his hands acted like ball of hurt and sadness inside of him, he squeezed it tighter and tighter before launching it across the room with all the force his pent up frustration could muster. It lacked direction and purpose, Jack watched in disbelief as it bounced off the top of the chair opposite him. He knew it, deep down, it was evident in the light that cascaded across the varnish. He had bought himself another couple of hours, the section would have to be completely stripped back.
Jack Anders stood with eagerness and walked towards the kitchen, his white spirit and varnish still sitting by the sink waiting for him silently, welcoming him back. He looked at the clock and sighed, he knew that it was only a matter of time before he had to sit down at the table again, he couldn't let Kira down, not this year. Sighing again, deeper this time, Jack turned his back on the White Spirit and forced himself to sit down at the table again, he had to finish the letter and it had to be from the heart.
Holding the pen tightly he began to write.
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