Two Envelopes

   One pencil stroke. Another one... Slowly she made tiny, well-marked pencil strokes on the textured paper that was laying on the wooden table in front of her. Eventually, the outlined profile of a man emerged as her drawing progressed. She tried to recall in her memories his calm, pretty face in detail to better convey his features. It turned out to be not such an easy task. She had already made good progress, but the girl was aware of her lack of experience… Yes, that was true… She knew that she needed to have more training and to help herself in building on her capabilities. She was highly motivated, choosing stubbornly to believe in herself, and that she could break down all visible barriers. She was drawing his straight nose when suddenly the tip of the pencil cracked a little, and then the slate-pencil broke completely. It seemed like an inordinate amount of effort she had made. She accidentally dropped the pencil on the cold floor and it rolled slowly towards the cupboard. Above the cupboard, there were several old painted portraits hung up in old-fashioned grey frames. She took a brief glance at the portrait that depicted her great-grandmother. With proper attention, she didn’t find much resemblance between herself and her deceased relative. She picked the pencil up off the floor, went back to the table and sharpened it several times. From time to time, she cleaned the surface of the table from the markings left by the slate-pencil and pieces of rubber. Eventually she picked up the yellow envelope. If she was right, the postman would deliver this envelope to the address of addressee by the next morning. Certainly, “if” was the key word. Will she send this pencil sketch or won’t she? That was her big hesitation.

   An hour before dawn, in another part of the town to the north, the young man did his best to write neatly, thus making his handwriting more legible. Beforehand, he had swapped the pen with black ink, which was darker than the night on which he had bought it yesterday at the nearest stationery store. He tore several new sheets of paper out of his notebook. Finally, a small draft of his well-explained thoughts was on the table, but here and there on the sheet of paper, some inkblots could be seen. This was because he often stopped writing midway through a word when he started having second thoughts about the things that worried him. Several times, he wiped the pen on a piece of the blotting paper that was laying right next to the letter. The letter needed to be rewritten because of the inkblots after he had finished committing his thoughts to paper. Not far from his table was a bin that contained many pieces of crumpled, discarded paper. They were clear indications of failed attempts along the way. By the time, he had finished, he could see outside the window that the day was breaking and brightly lighting up nearby areas. He was waiting for the postman, still thinking about whether he should send this letter to her or not.         


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