A Missed Connection

He had not been expecting a letter. Thomas was the only one of his friends who still sent messages that way. The only one of his current friends, at least.

The small, white envelope bore a commemorative stamp from a set he had bought himself. He had thrown his out because they didn't cover the postage after the rate hike a month ago and he hated putting more than one stamp on an envelope. This one had made it through alone, though. The return address was unfamiliar but Aimee's handwriting was unmistakable.

Thomas fought the urge to tear the envelope open right there. He still had some pride. He continued with his routine, pulling out the rest of his mail and dropping it in the trashcan situated just below the mailboxes for the express purpose of collecting overdue bills and notices about new restaurants no one in the building could afford to visit.

The envelope remained sealed all the way back to his apartment. Thomas did not open it before closing his door, nor did he lift the edge of the flap to peek inside as he crossed to the living room couch. That was as much face as he could bear to save, however. He tore the end off the envelope before his ass made contact with the frayed threads of the cushion.

The envelope contained a single sheet of paper from the monogrammed notepad she had given him on their last anniversary. He wished he'd remembered to take it with him when he left. Thomas, she wrote, I was wrong. I don't want to live without you any longer. Please call. It was signed simply, Me.

He let the paper and the envelope drop as three words danced in his mind. I was wrong. She had never said those words to him in the three years they were married. Then two other words replaced them: Please call.

Suddenly his phone was in his hand, his finger jammed down on the key that was still programmed to her number. Two rings sounded, then: I'm sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer-

Thomas snapped his phone shut and looked down at it, half convinced that it was broken somehow. Aimee wouldn't change her number. She'd had it since high school, longer than anyone they knew, a fact of which she was very proud.

Aimee might have held the record, but several of her friends lagged behind only because they hadn't got cell phones as soon as she did. Thomas opened his phone again and scrolled through his contacts, looking someone who might not hang up on hearing his voice. He settled on Sarah. He had always thought she had a little bit of a crush on him. This time the call went through.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sarah. It's Thomas. How have you been?"

"Not good," she answered, her voice utterly flat. "What do you want?"

"I was hoping you might be able to get me in touch with Aimee..."

"What?" she snapped.

"I know how it ended," he said. "But she sent me this letter. I thought maybe..."

"Oh, Thomas," Sarah said. "I can't talk to you about Aimee. You need to call her mom. Do you still have her number?"

"Um, sure. I think so."

"Good. Give her a call, Thomas."

The line went dead, and Thomas felt his stomach drop. He imagined many reasons why Sarah would tell him to call Aimee's mom instead of Aimee, and none of them ended with him and Aimee meeting up again. But if Sarah wouldn't talk to him, none of Aimee's other friends would either.

He dialed her mom's number and jumped in as soon as he heard the call connect.

"Hi, Andrea. It's Thomas."

The line was silent.

"Sarah told me I should call," he continued. "I got this letter from Aimee. She wanted me to call her, but-"

"It's too late for that now," Andrea's voice spit out at him. "Isn't it?"

"I hope not," Thomas said quickly. "I just got the letter today. I thought there might be a chance..."

"A chance?" she cried. "A chance for what?" Andrea paused for a moment, and her voice was suddenly softer when she asked, "You haven't heard, have you Thomas?"

"Heard what?"

"Aimee's died," Andrea said. "She...she took too many sleeping pills. About a week ago."

Andrea's voice continued as the phone slipped from his suddenly lifeless hand. It tumbled twice in the air and landed with a smack on the floor next to the note that said I don't want to live without you any longer and the envelope with the stamp that was at least a month old.