I Love You

My darling

Please forgive me.

I was in your pants a few minutes ago.

Perhaps you did not even notice anything. In which case, consider me red-faced from a throbbing and pulsating shame.

If you did, then let my conscience be cleansed when I confirm that the strange presence you might have felt in your pants a few moments ago was not some misdirected pixie or will-o-wisp or any of the other manifold creatures that inhabit the faerie realm. . .but me, my love. Only me.

I hope this does not change our relationship. I have always treasured the vast distance you and I maintain between each other. I savor with great relish the knowledge that you have not the slightest interest in me either as a person or as an animal. I consider the fact that we are only strangers on a subway, never to see each other again after this next stop, to be the cornerstone of the understanding and devotion we have always shared between us.

I do not intend to be in your pants again. But to leave this earth without ever having once been in them even for the slightest of durations? This I shuddered to comprehend. And so, my love, I got in them.

What I found there may not surprise you. After all, they are your pants. And, I presume, like a good librarian, you are well-informed as to the reference materials you stock.

But to a fresh-faced explorer like myself, having never set foot inside your pants until tonight, I was immersed in a beauteous coral trove, the likes of which Cousteau could but merely dream.

(Perhaps this complimentary description will allay any forthcoming animosity you may now harbor upon hearing that you are no longer the only one who has been in your pants.)

Also, my love, I am concerned that you will grow to doubt the security of your pants, perhaps blaming them for this recent violation. Do not. I assure you, the zipper was not wanting in tenacity and the tightness with which the denim clung to your thighs made speed and surreptitiousness near impossibilities.

But do not challenges exist to be met? And overcome? For though your pants proved a worthy foe, in the end, I was in them. And they were not in me.

There. I have cleared the air and spoken the truth in the hopes of absolution. If not from you, my dear, then perhaps from the gods who watch o'er this A express train.

And do not worry. I shall speak of this to no one.

Alas! I must leave you now. I can hear from the intercom and see from the graffiti that this is indeed my stop. And so my heart turns homeward. Ever homeward.

But I do not need to tell you this, my love. Why disturb you when you look so beautiful, sitting at the far end of the car, listening to your iPod and reading your Penguin paperback? No. Stay where you are, my precious tableau vivant. Let me remember you just like this. It's only a short walk to my domicile from here. And besides, my Herculean memory can always handle an extra parcel.

Stand clear of the closing doors, my darling.

I will always love you,

Wm.