“People suck. And I hate them.” There, I said it. I’d much rather spend my days around animals. All day long. In many ways, they seem to be much more rational than us humans. But this is not the story of why I think people are disappointing. It is rather a story that started with a ransom note. The ending? I still don’t know how it will end.

It started on a hot mid August afternoon. The streets were deserted, everything was still, the leaves up in the trees weren’t rustling, and even the otherwise noisy squirrels were nowhere to be found. There were no kids feeding the ducks at the pond. It could have been described as lifeless, very much like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. It was an eerie sight. In retrospect, I should have stayed home. Someone else might have seen it as a sign of what was about to happen, but I had been waiting for this book reading for a while and dismissed all the warnings, crossing the park as if in a hurry, instead of breathing in deeply, taking nature in, like I usually did.

As I walked past the cafe on 57th Street, I saw him, playing guitar inside, strands of his black hair falling over his shut eyes. His voice carried so much emotion, it mesmerized me. I stared into the cafe, unable to move, and before the song was finished, I had walked in and sat at the table closest to him, as if a force stronger than myself had called the shots. I looked around, but he didn’t seem to hypnotize anyone else like he did me. I was only half listening, but there was a deep melancholy to everything he sang. Not that I cared what the content was. I would have followed him to the end of the world, even if had been singing about mass murder. “CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER?” I wasn’t ready to come back to Earth, but the waitress’ disgruntled voice, brought me back in a rather abrupt manner. “I’m sorry. Nonfat latte, please”, I said distracted, without looking at the waitress, wondering for how long she stood next to me, asking if I wanted to order anything, before losing her patience.

Before I sank back into the music, my cell phone vibrated. It was Bobby, saying he was going to the baseball court, a few blocks from the apartment. “Good for him. Maybe some fresh air would do him some good”, I thought, while smiling. My brother and I had moved here only three weeks ago, so he could go to art school; he truly had a gift. When I was forced to grow up, I gave up on my goals, and decided, he wouldn’t go through the same ordeal. We only had each other, and didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood. The start of the semester was still a week and a half away. I already hated my boss at the bookstore, and Bobby seemed to miss his friends, to the point that he rarely ever talk to me anymore. Had this been a mistake? Should we have stayed back home? Did Bobby question any of my decisions? And more importantly, did he resent me? Would we get back to normal? I shook my doubts away, preventing myself from causing a scene. Last time I cried in public, I vowed never to do it again, and I meant it. Nothing like a few tears to make everyone suggest we go back to therapy, or grief counseling, or something. But no one knew us here. I wouldn’t open the door to find Mrs. Brown standing there, with a casserole in her hands, and a worried frown in her face. I guess that also meant, we wouldn’t be going back to Dr. Price on Tuesdays and Thursdays, at 3:00 p.m. I have to say, that part was a relief. I have never been good at sharing my feelings and let’s face it, having to pay someone to listen to you, really sucks. My friends didn’t know what to say or do, when I started talking about our parents, and I cannot say I blamed them, but it made us drift apart. Facebook updates show me pictures of their offices, their husbands, their babies…

Hi darling,

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