A typewriter in duck-egg blue, a manual Olivetti Lettera 32. The same model that Cormac McCarthy used. I’d bought it off eBay three years earlier for thirty-five dollars after reading The Road and deciding that novels written on typewriters were vastly superior to novels written on computers (but still probably not as good as novels written by hand). I had not, as of yet, written anything more than All work and no play makes Henry a dull boy over and over again on both sides of a page to make sure the ribbon was working. After that it’d sat on my desk for six months next to the dying iMac, until the sight of the two of them together made me feel so guilty for writing on neither that I shoved the typewriter in the bottom drawer and hadn’t thought of it since.

In the top drawer of my desk was a ream of thick, canary-colored cotton typewriter paper, swiped from the set of The Great Gatsby by Murray the last time he’d visited Sydney. When held up to the light, the faintest hint of a translucent damask pattern was visible in the top corner. It was among the more beautiful things I owned.

Dear Grakov, I wrote, my fingers punching the keys in a storm of mechanical sounds.

I would write Grace Town a letter. I would say all of the things I struggled to say out loud. I knew she preferred spoken drafts, but she’d never read my work, and maybe after she had, she’d understand why I preferred writing to talking.

I sent her a Snapchat of those first two words, Dear Grakov, and captioned it “Get ready to have your mind blown.” And then I wrote.

Dear Grakov,

For the last few months I’ve lived my life according to a simple truth: that, in the end, nothing we do here really matters. Some people fear oblivion. Some people are scared by the idea that their lives are meaningless. You taught me to find it beautiful. You taught me to let it give me courage.

The courage, for instance, to show a girl a PowerPoint presentation about dating me, knowing that if she said no, any proof of my embarrassment would one day be eaten up by the universe. It was you who taught me that oblivion is our reward for being human, that the very fabric of reality itself is kind enough to ensure that all our sins and silliness will be stripped away.

It’s that same courage that I’m using to write you this letter, laying bare for you exactly how I feel. You’re special, Grace Town. You’re beautiful. You shine. I never get tired of looking at you, or being around you. Before you, I’d never been able to imagine wanting someone in my life the way that I want you. From the first day you made me drive myself home, there was chemistry unlike I’d ever felt for anyone before.

That’s not the kind of thing you walk away from, even if the situation is difficult. Even if it’s so messed up, you begin to believe you might be in The Truman Show because, goddamn, someone must be plotting this crap. I know you know this, because if you didn’t, one or both of us would’ve left by now, or we wouldn’t have started. Because some things are worth fighting for.

There’s still the problem of him, of course. I know you still love him, and I can understand that.

I’d never ask you to choose between us. I’d never give you an ultimatum, or a time frame, or hold you accountable if you couldn’t let him go. Firstly, because to do so would be unreasonable and only make you resent me. Secondly, because I don’t believe I should have to. I know who I am. I know my worth. I hope that you can see it as well.

So, Grace Town, that’s how I feel. I wish I could be this eloquent when we talk, but I’m a writer at heart. I’m wasted on the spoken word, but there’s a small piece of my soul in this letter. To surmise: I am here, I am game, I am staying, and I want you.

It’s the end of the Earth and the death of the universe that give me the insane courage to say that I am yours, if you want me.

All that’s left now is for you to decide what you want. No mean feat, I’m aware, but something that must be done regardless.

Catch you on the flip side, kid.

Henrik

• • •

I reread the letter a dozen times, then folded it, put it in an envelope, and handwrote her name across the front. Then I put it and the typewriter back into the dark drawer of my desk and sat and waited for her to Snapchat me back. She didn’t, even though I knew she’d opened it, so I messaged her.

HENRY PAGE:

Just hit Safari on my phone and it opened to the Wikipedia page of Matthew Broderick. Good thing I’m not in public.

GRACE TOWN:

Matthew Broderick is never something to be ashamed of. What’s this letter you’re writing? Doesn’t look like an English essay to me.

I’ll have you know I’m seriously contemplating the implications of capitalism on postmodern feminist literature at the moment, so there.

The letter is about ALL OF THE STUFF AND THINGS. Also, it’s written on paper from The Great Gatsby film set, ’cause I’m fancy like that.

The stuff and things, huh . . . Sounds interesting. As for you being fancy . . .

No comment.

THE GREAT GATSBY, TOWN. You’re getting a letter written on paper that has been in the presence of Leo DiCaprio. It probably has some of his skin cells on it. HIS SKIN CELLS.

How’d you even get your hands on that? I thought you were exaggerating? Plus that doesn’t make you fancy, it makes the paper fancy.

Nope, it really is from the Gatsby set. Muz knew a guy who knew a guy who let him into the set warehouse and said he could have whatever we wanted ’cause they’d finished filming. I wanted him to take a car, but alas, apparently that was dreaming a little too large. So you see, I’m at least 85% fancy by association.

Well la-di-da, Page. Us plebs bow down to you and your shiny script paper. We are not worthy.

Don’t worry, you’re at least 15% classy by association with me. You might even gain a temporary percentage point or two after you touch the Gatsby paper.