Letters from The Waters

Each day a message in a bottle would lap and tread its way over the sleepy pond toward Max Bugle’s dinghy, always from the same senders, Bryan and Linda Waters. Max’s dinghy sagged rubberly into the water, slightly, as to dampen Mr. Bugle’s socks, permanently. The letters penned by Bryan and Linda Waters were always received with enthusiasm, for Max had no other form of correspondence to digest. More like an inventory of store shelves than a conversation, the messages were statements, facts of life, cold–no part of the bottled updates addressed Mr. Bugle specifically or necessitated a response. Mr. Bugle assumed that Bryan and Linda targeted his readership because only someone like Mr. Bugle would entertain the distant words they offered to him. Stowed in waterproof bags at the bottom of the dinghy the old letters were dated, maintained and frequently reread by Max Bugle.

As the months passed along the water, Mr. Bugle became more discombobulated on behalf of Bryan and Linda Waters. Their facts of life had twisted and overgrown in the space of the missives.

Max held two letters, one dated February 15th in the left hand, and October 19th in the right. He read and frowned at the contents:

February 15th

Dear Mr. Bugle,

I, Linda Waters, look up at (he’s taller than me) Bryan’s smiling face. He is 6’1” and I am 5’9”. Living quarters: a house 3br/2ba, one child, ten years old. We are employed, happily. 3-5 drinks per week. Bruise on forearm due to sharp countertop corner–dang! Confident it won’t rain.

Love,

The Waters

October 19th

Max,

I, Bryan Waters, look up at (she’s taller than me) Linda’s frowning face. We are both short. Living quarters: an apartment, 1br/1ba. Two kids, both 5 years old. We are unhappy. We are sober. It hasn’t stopped raining. We have never had any countertops. We have divorced.

Love,

The Waters

Max had a letter for all the days between February 15th and October 19th, in both directions. Still, when comparing the two letters in his hands, Max had no idea how the discrepancies between February 15th and October 19th could be reconciled. He figured their letters might be different if they could stop squirming around so much. The Waters that Max had been introduced to, from the first message in a bottle, had become so refracted that he longed for them to stop reaching out altogether.

Max Bugle began to worry that the problem was from within and not the fault of The Waters and their letters. Maybe I’m not receptive to change, he thought in the boat. No, that wasn’t it. Had Linda ever once offered an explanation of the changing facts, all would be forgiven. An admission that the facts had changed would go a long way. Bryan and Linda soon stopped sending messages in bottles. Shortly afterwards Max abandoned his dinghy and waded the short and shallow distance to shore.

Max Bugle was never able to perceive change. The lives of Bryan and Linda Waters were as imperceptible to him as the process of corrosion in a car doorsill. Returning to the pond, Max set out to watch the sun set. By nighttime he had missed the whole thing.