Falling in love is a necessary and divine sort of a fiction. And I have the letters to prove it
I wrote my first love letter in 1973. I was 13 years old; it was the first year of high school. His name was Trevor. I wrote it very neatly in blue ballpoint pen on a piece of lined foolscap paper and folded it up into a small square.
“Dear Trevor,
I like you very much too. Since Wednesday you showed you loved me, but then on Friday (just because I threw a stone and didn’t mean to hurt you) you started telling everyone you hated me, grinning now again and me not knowing what it means. I’m writing this letter to ask you to love me again.
“Dear Elly,
I think I will love you again, the stone did hurt. Please tell me why you threw this stone at me, if you tell me why I will love you again.
