6 minutes later . . .
I read the letter over and over, picturing Angela sitting right beside me, whispering each word into my ear. When you read something like this, your mind automatically assumes all of the writer’s little nuances. The slight curve in her lips between words. The way she’s so careful and exact with her pronunciations. How she blinks a couple extra times between important sentences, just so I don’t miss the things she ascribes emphasis to. How her voice trials off when she says my name.
I could imagine each and every one of those expressions and mannerisms.
And then I placed the letter—I placed Angela—back into that envelope that smelled of apples and cinnamon and ecstasy. I reached down and slid it into one of the side pockets in my black duffel bag.