Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1933
34 Bedford Street
Greenwich Village, New York, NY

My Dearest George,

The autumn leaves are falling like spent promises outside my window tonight, each one a small death that reminds me of the distance that stretches between us like an unbridgeable chasm. I sit here in my cramped flat, the radiator clanking its familiar protest against the evening chill, whilst my flatmates chatter mindlessly about tomorrow’s picture show. Their voices fade to mere background noise as I contemplate the curious ache that has settled in my chest—an ache that bears your name, though I wonder if you truly deserve such intimate real estate within my heart.

It has been three weeks since your last letter arrived, George. Three weeks of watching the postman trudge past our stoop without so much as a glance towards our mailbox. Three weeks of crafting excuses for your silence whilst my pride slowly withers like the chrysanthemums Mrs. Benedetto tends in the courtyard below. Do you think me some patient Penelope, content to weave and unweave my hopes whilst you tend to your ledgers and your comfortable Delaware routines?

I attended a reading at the Provincetown Playhouse last evening—O’Neill’s latest, though the specifics matter little now. What struck me was not the playwright’s brooding examination of human folly, but rather how the leading man’s passion seemed to burn through the very walls of that intimate theatre. He loved with such fierce abandon, such reckless commitment to his truth, that I found myself weeping—not for his fictional tragedy, but for the pallid shadow of affection that apparently passes for love in our correspondence.

You write to me of your work, of your colleagues’ small triumphs and petty grievances, of the changing leaves along the Brandywine Creek. Your letters are filled with gentle observations and that dry humour I once found so endearing. But where, George, is the man who might burn down the world for love? Where is the passion that should compel you to board the next train to Penn Station, to appear at my door dishevelled and desperate with longing? Instead, I receive your measured paragraphs, your careful penmanship that speaks of Sunday afternoons and methodical deliberation rather than the urgency of a heart that cannot bear another moment’s separation.

Perhaps I have misjudged your nature entirely. Perhaps what I interpreted as quiet strength is merely complacency, what I saw as gentle wisdom nothing more than emotional cowardice dressed in prettier clothes. The men I encounter here in the Village—writers and artists who live on cigarettes and conviction—they may be penniless and uncertain, but they burn with purpose. They argue politics until dawn, they create beauty from suffering, they risk everything for their art, their beliefs, their loves. They would never leave a woman wondering, never allow three weeks to pass without some desperate communication.

Do you know what I did yesterday, George? I walked to Grand Central Station and stood beneath that magnificent celestial dome, watching passengers hurry towards their trains. I purchased a timetable—the 3:15 to Wilmington—and for twenty precious minutes, I imagined boarding that southbound train. I pictured myself arriving unannounced at your neat little house on Tatnall Street, pictured the look of surprise—perhaps even joy—that might illuminate your careful features. But then reality intruded, as it always does. What would I find there? A man genuinely delighted by my bold gesture, or someone mortified by such impropriety, worried about what the neighbours might whisper?

The truth is, darling George, I am growing weary of this half-life we share. These letters, however tender, however thoughtfully crafted, cannot sustain what I believed was flowering between us. I need more than your curious mind and gentle wit delivered through the postal service. I need to feel your breath against my neck, to argue with you until we’re both breathless, to see your eyes change colour when passion overtakes that perpetual thoughtfulness you wear like armour.

The city is different now than when I first arrived five years ago. The breadlines grow longer, the soup kitchens more crowded, the faces harder. Even here in the Village, the romantic notion of bohemian poverty has lost its lustre when actual poverty stalks the streets. My job at Holloway & Pierce grows more precarious each month as fewer manuscripts arrive and fewer books sell. I wake each morning uncertain whether this day will bring news of my dismissal. Yet through all this uncertainty, this grinding anxiety about tomorrow, I find myself yearning not for security or comfort, but for connection—real, vital, uncompromising connection.

Is that too much to ask of you, George? Is my heart too demanding, my spirit too restless for your measured affections? Perhaps you are content with our sedate courtship, this careful dance we perform across state lines. Perhaps your curiosity about the world extends to everything except the woman who has offered you her heart with embarrassing honesty.

I will not apologise for wanting more, for demanding the full measure of love rather than its polite substitute. If my expectations seem unreasonable, if my passion appears unwomanly by conventional standards, then perhaps we are fundamentally unsuited for one another. Perhaps you need someone content with quiet conversations and patient waiting, someone who will not challenge your comfortable boundaries or demand that you risk anything meaningful for love’s sake.

Write to me, George. Or don’t. But do not leave me suspended in this liminal space between hope and resignation. I deserve better than your silence, just as you deserve honesty about the woman you claim to care for.

The radiator has grown quiet now, and my flatmates have finally retired. Outside, the city continues its restless nocturne, full of hearts breaking and mending, of chances taken and opportunities squandered. I remain here in this small room, surrounded by my books and my ambitions and my increasingly fragile faith in what we might have been.

With love that refuses to be reasonable,

Florence

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.