Dear Yesenia,

You said I should never talk to you again. Don’t text me, not ever again, you said just yesterday. It will be hard to uphold this promise, the one I never agreed to making, in every molasses moving B block for the rest of the winter. We both agreed that the time in Restaurant 108 stands still, that having our hands smell like large french vanillas, extra cream extra sugar, makes us gag. We wrapped the cookies together, and you talked about your boyfriend, and you led me by the hands to the bakeshop when Paul hadn’t had his morning cigarette and spat, raw with anger, on all of us. We talked about how we needed to get out of this class, we laughed about it. I remember telling you that, whoever this thief was, was dumb and persistent to keep stealing wallets, which are obvious, weighty targets. I’ve never stolen a dime in my life and I knew that cash was the untraceable way to go, and you’d agreed. Yesterday, the next day, my wallet was emptied the burden of 65 dollars, still zipped in my pocket, still locked in your locker. You swore to God you didn’t take it. You swore you were my friend, and I believed you.

There is not one thing stopping me from spreading your name now, but I absolutely won’t. I’ve heard things about you, things about your life, that make me want to snap off the stems of the grapevine that feed off of you. They say you’ve been pregnant and they widened their eyes and laughed as I listened. I know you think I’m one of these stems. But you should know that perpetuating these rumors is not what I want. I will not have you think of me as just another one of Paul’s favorites, one of the white girls who works at the registers. I will not have you think you are worth any less because he is a bigoted old man, who wrestles with you because you are Hispanic. I just wish you hadn’t proved him right, in his own mind. He knows now that he was right not to trust you, and now you will suffer the abuse of his own acidity towards anyone who isn’t white. Racism will remain his best tool against theft. This is what I am mad about. I will not say your real name, because it is all too fast too soon and you are still my friend. There were reasons that you stole, and I don’t believe you’re a bad person, and I hope you know that my heart was pounding too when I walked into the Restaurant today to tell him. I was disgusted too, mostly because Paul screamed “I knew it!” when I stumbled over the words. I want you to talk to me about this. Because even though you stole from me, that money should not have been there in the first place, and I have to think you made yourself obvious for a reason. Why did you steal? Why did you keep stealing, after almost 3 months of nonstop investigation, threats, cigarette breath and hazy eyes in your direction? You must be brave. Or you must need the money. Or maybe you wanted to be caught. Whatever it is, I want to know. I won’t lie to you and say I’m not mad at you; you stole from me, you lied to me, and I can’t tell anymore if you talked to me for my wallet or for someone to trudge through the syrupy time with you. I feel used. But I have more love for you than you think, and you are not ruined in my mind. It makes me sick to my stomach that I gave you tips on how to steal from me, but I want you to tell me the truth, before it’s beaten out of you. I want to talk. Maybe you think I never want to speak with you again, but I really do, because watching bridges burn, however illusionary they were, is not my strong suit. If you ever need a shoulder, if you ever want to apologize, or if Paul is yelling at you because his nicotine fix has been postponed and he is stuck in the 1950’s, I’m here.

Love,

I.