QHL-0001: A Goodbye Disguised as a Joke

Letter from Jules to Ben, dated 17 March 1994

Typed, unsigned. In a coffee-stained envelope.

Dear Ben,

You always said I couldn’t write a serious letter if my life depended on it. Which is a dramatic way of saying you never got one. But since I’m in the mood to prove you wrong and mildly sentimental (it’s the same as drunk, really), here we are.

I should start with a joke, because that’s what we do. Or what I do.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Orange.

Orange who?

Orange you glad I’m not standing outside your flat with takeaway and a sheepish look this time?

Terrible. But it bought me a few seconds.

Listen, I’m not going to turn up tonight. I told you I might, and you said you didn’t care either way, which was your way of saying please do. But I won’t. Not because I don’t want to—but because I do. And because every time I do, I end up sitting on your sofa talking about weather or telly or some daft memory like the night the power went out and we lit every candle in the flat and you said I looked like a Victorian rent boy.

We keep playing at being mates, and I keep pretending the bit at the end doesn’t matter. But it does. The moment where you’d stand too close, or say my name like a question, and I’d crack a joke because I’m afraid you’ll kiss me and afraid you won’t.

So, yeah. No takeaway. No sheepish grin. Just this letter. And you, probably reading it with that little frown you do when you’re trying not to feel something.

Take care, Ben.

Keep the candles. They suit you.

J