by Jenn Ashworth
It's probably too late for me to be up drinking wine when I've got work tomorrow but it's a good job I am because around midnight the letter box clicks as if something's just been pushed through it. A letter! A love letter from you saying you didn't mean it, you're an idiot, you don't deserve me, you're sorry - and all other manner of nice things about my hair and my skin and my porcelain hips - a bouquet of compliments and maybe a drawing or a poem or a photograph or a lock of your hair or something like that. I tiptoe down the stairs, heart hammering, toes feeling for the way in the dark. It's on the doormat, it's white, it's yellow, it's got writing on it! It's glossy, it's crumpled, it's a flyer for free pizza.
Jenn Ashworth was born in 1982 in Preston, Lancashire. She tries to write autobiography but has a thin grasp of the facts. The memoir turns into short stories and novels, some of which you can read at her website.