NB:- I denotes a character not me (the author)
This letter isn't to you, the band. This letter is for the band's front man.
My apologies. Let's start over.
Dear Chris Martin,
I love you. But we need to break up.
You don't know me, Chris. We've never met. You grazed my hands at a concert once, but I'm told that doesn't count. But you and I have history, my dear; decades of triumph, grief, adoration, frustration knotted and woven together in indecipherable patterns. I've discovered, in recent contemplations about our relations, it's nearly impossible to unravel.
This letter is a risk. I'm sharing it regardless. So here we go, Chris Martin. I'm laying it all out like an atlas.
At this point [if you've even read to this point] you're probably wondering about Drew. Who's Drew? My husband. Yes, I'm married, but don't worry. Drew knows about you. He's not necessarily cool with you, but you won't get in trouble for this. I will.
It's just once, at your concert–a long time ago–you gyrated on a piano bench, and, well, what can you expect? And this was during my first date with Drew.Way to make it complicated, Chris.
But I knew you way before Drew. I loved you before Drew, too. I discovered Coldplay when a friend suggested I "check out this hot, new band," and loaned a CD. Oh, I checked it out, alright. On repeat. Waiting for a boyfriend to help with my flat tire on a busy interstate. The boyfriend never showed up. You don't know this [because you weren't there], but you and I got to know each other in that silver Taurus. I learned your words, your rhythms of speech. You sang to me in a voice congested, yet melodic. When I tried to call the boyfriend again, you sent a shiver. I nodded, wiped tears, contacted a state trooper instead. Despite not knowing what you looked like, we gained a level of intimacy in that moment.
I remember in magnificent detail the first time I matched your voice to the physical specimen. In college, I studied in a buried, wood-paneled bar several miles off campus. The place had a musty smell; everything inside was pliable and damp. The square windows, which let in no light, rattled violently whenever a train passed. I also frequented the bar because I liked the bartender. He was tall and thin, with long, graceful fingers that he used to pull back his blonde hair. Whenever he did this, I'd catch a glimpse of the four-star tattoo on his forearm. During downtime, which there was much of, he'd crane over the stocks page in a passenger's left-behind tribune. I went there once a week. He never noticed me. But you did, Chris Martin.
to be continued in next story