She handed me the sheaf of papers and walked away. I knew I would never see her again. All I knew about her was her first name. I knew her eyes. Maybe that was why she gave them to me. I looked down at the stack of loose leaf I was holding. The lines were covered in minute handwriting.
The letters intrigued me more than the words they created. I held the top sheet of paper closer to my face so I could see the long, thin letters that melted together somewhat. Some of it was cramped and frantic but most of it was acutely spaced and very easy to read. They told rather than wrote.
My thoughts congealed as I looked back up at her. I wanted an explanation but I knew it wasn’t worth asking. We had never had a legitimate conversation in the weeks I knew her. With a sigh, I sat down on the sidewalk and began to read.
Her words were analogous to a paintbrush. I could see and feel everything she described. I often found myself shaking with anger or hugging myself in sorrow. It was all there, everything I ever wanted to know was written in those papers. I knew her from those papers, from that cramped handwriting that told.
When I reached the end there was a single sheet with a single line. I read it and smiled that soft, gentle, all-knowing smile I knew she could see when she wrote it. I clutched the stack of papers to my chest. They were precious to me in a way no one but she and I would understand. I closed my eyes and allowed her voice to fill my mind, repeating the last line I had read in that fluid, thin handwriting that told.
The world is too perfect for people like me and you.