As he answered the email, tears burnt the corners of his eyes. It was the first ‘fan’ letter he’d gotten in years.
It was a fan letter which wasn’t written by a fanatic, stalker or other whack job, but by a person who simply mentioned how much she had enjoyed a role he’d played.
A role, the role of his career, close to fifteen years ago.
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No doubt, this fan had probably seen a rerun of the show, or, perhaps,was provoked to recall the character and thought to drop him a line and wish him the best.
It was the kind of mail he ignored fifteen years ago when he believed himself an emerging star, ready to conquer the box offices.
On his mirror was a photograph of himself from those days. He looked at it on occasion not to wallow in his once fame, but because he was standing with a man who had been his best friend.
A man who died.
A man whom he had known most of his life had died, and he didn’t know of it; not for years.
It was, oddly, the only photograph he had of David.
The joke, if there was one, is that he hadn’t kept the photo because it was an image of David, he had kept it because he liked the way he had looked fifteen years ago.