Touched
By Jenny L. Collins

Donna sat at her PC, taking the words in. Jack had sent her some beautiful poetry this morning and she was touched. She cried, clutched her chest, and then laughed at herself for being so silly. But then she thought of his words: perfectly formed phrases-- like diamonds-- and the tears came again.

She was overwhelmed. Could I be in love with him? They had only recently been in contact, but she hadn't felt this way for a man in a long time. She remembered the insecurity and giddiness a crush could bring. Well, I definitely want to fuck him.

Donna imagined what it might be like to be warm and naked under the covers with him. They would sweat and giggle and drink out of chipped coffee mugs. He would have whiskey breath and the ashtrays would be overflowing. He is a bachelor and an artist and they like their clutter.

What if he was ugly? What if he was fat? Real fat. She waved it off. I'd fuck him anyway. The man who wrote those words has a beautiful soul and that's what she wanted to be with. Not the shell that housed it. What if he didn't have any teeth? Oh boy. I don't know if I could sit across a café table through a latte if he was missing his teeth. But I could order an iced mocha and drink it really fast…

Oh god, girl. What are you doing? He'll think you're crazy.

Well, maybe I am but maybe he'll want me, too. I'm not bad-looking. I can still turn heads. They're just not as young as they used to be. Now where's that letter?

Donna scrambled to find the correspondence that mentioned Jack's city and state.

I know his name, his address, I can call him when I get there and we can meet…

But what about Steve?

Donna had been married to Steve eight years and could not think of one romantic thing he had ever said to her.

Steve would never know.

But I'll know.

Her head whirled from all the emotion and second-guessing. She used to be so sensible. Jack made her feel this way.

She grabbed her keys and went for a drive to clear her mind.

She planned on taking a route that followed the river, and then turned into the hills above. The road went by a golf course and wound through curves past majestic estates with well-tended gardens and green, green lawns. The classical station was playing a beautiful adagio. Donna's chest swelled when she saw the irony. The poems, the music enveloped her. The love-making. That would be pure poetry itself. Nothing could be more perfect.

Then she realized she had missed the turn and found herself driving through a run-down neighborhood on the southeast side. Houses in disrepair and beat-up cars lined the street. The news had come on the classical station and there was nothing pleasant about the drive now.

The cold reality was sobering.

It would never work. She could never have him. But she wasn't ready for another woman to be touched by his poems just yet.

Donna knew what she had to do.

Back at the office she washed her face, steeled herself, and then sent the message from her computer:

Dear Mr. Wilson,

We thank you for your recent poetry submissions, but we regret to inform you that we are not able to publish them at this time…