Chapter 9
The sun blazed fiercely down over the anvil of the desert, stretching endlessly as far as the eye could see. Greg Benson descended from the rig and walked, sweating in his open khaki shirt, toward the truck.
"Letter, Greg," the American driver said, handing him an airmail envelope with Barbara's San Francisco return address and a red sticker that said Special Delivery in small print and Express in large. He opened it eagerly. Then the smile on his face turned to a dark angry frown as he saw the first lines of the brief nastily scrawled letter. And as he read on, the anger changed to hurt, then hopelessness. Dear Greg, I don't know how to begin this. Call it a dear John, and try somehow to forgive me.
Something has happened to me during the last few weeks since I last saw you, perhaps the most profound change in my life. You were the catalyst for that change, . though I know you will hate me for saying it. But I have discovered that until that night, I never knew how to live. I have been learning ever since. I still don't necessarily want to break off. our engagement, as I don't know what things will be like when you come back a year from now. But I wouldn't want to be married, today, or tomorrow, or next week. I won't want to be married until I've experienced enough of what I missed during all those years I wasn't, wasn't.. . How can I say it? Fucking. You did it to me first, anyway. I'll still always love you for that. Please try to forgive me and try to understand. And get yourself a harem over there to keep you company until I see you again. (I'm back in San Francisco. I'll start a Ph.D. program at
Stanford this winter. Teaching didn't work out, for reasons I won't go into now.)
Just understand, Greg, I'm sorry if this hurts you or comes as a shock. And know that I'm not doing it bluntly out of spite. I just don't know how else to say it and I have literally been working on this letter for days.
Love, Barbara.