This Is How I'd Love You by Hazel Woods

masquerade here as dark, endless caves full of horrors. An English regiment took cover in the cellar of an abandoned farmhouse nearby and Rogerson and I had to meet them there to retrieve their injured, whom they’d already carried an unfathomable distance. As I stood there in the dim room, English soldiers all around me, clamoring for cigarettes and canteens, I found myself worrying about this pawn—faceless and nameless, but familiar all the same—hoping it will never recede into any past that might be left behind. How foolish of me, you may think. Get ahold of yourself, it’s just a chess game, man. But since your last letter, this gentle figure is a creature that lives in my mind, though I am sometimes sure I will die before I can see the endgame.
By the way, how is your new address? When I read that you were relocating such a great distance I was concerned. I hope everything is well with you and your family. I remember reading about the indigenous owls of New Mexico. Have you seen any? I’ve always admired the daring and wisdom of those birds, their round, echoing hoots making even the darkest night less lonely.
In thanks,
Charles Reid
    By the end, the lead had become so dull that his signature is hardly more than a thick looping smudge. Even so, Hennie moves her index finger across the page, mimicking his script, slowing especially over his name, until she can trace his signature perfectly. Inhabiting his body, exiting her own, she crouches down under the table, imagining the cramped feel of the cellar, the roughness of chapped lips, the stale smell of urine on her clothes, the sound of artillery just outside.
    She also knows exactly how she will respond, for it is clear the letter is meant for her. He has found her notes in the margin and he is intrigued. More than a chess game, he longs for her words. My dear Mr. Reid, My father and I are political exiles here in southern New Mexico, masquerading as a mine superintendent and his adventurous daughter. I’m not sure which of us is better disguised, for he knows next to nothing about mines, and I am hardly adventurous. You see, I am a girl of just seventeen, recently admitted to Wellesley College, fond of textiles, not fortresses. I’m sure your hopes will be dashed when you hear just how perfectly dull your imagination’s occupant actually is, but I will make a heroic effort to give you words worth the postage. Alas, our correspondence has only begun and already I must chastise you. Please, do not invoke your death. It is not a matter to be tossed around cavalierly. Some might even say it could be used to manipulate a person’s emotions. Let’s agree to exist for each other forever. You are alive here on the page, here with me in our borrowed adobe house in the middle of nowhere. I will keep your pages, your words, as evidence of your vitality. Our existence can reach as far into the future as can be imagined. Look at that, we’ve created our own immortality. Regardless, there are lots and lots of stars out here in the desert and your safety will always be one of the things I wish for when I see one make its lucky streak across the black sky.
    She is still under the table, composing her reply, when Berto comes in the front door, whistling twice, and slides a box onto the tabletop. She knows it will be filled with the items her father has chosen from the grocery: tins of smoked fish, a jug of milk, cider, fresh beans, a wedge of soft cheese, and ham bones.
    She looks at Berto’s boots, the black leather old and broken around the toes. To Hensley they look just like the pair she imagines on Mr. Reid. She wiggles her own toes, but they are unfettered; she is barefoot. This, even more than Berto’s presence, brings Hensley back to her present.
    “Boots,” she says, even as she reaches her hand out and places it on one, in greeting.
    It is a manly boot, but there is something overgrown about it, something clumsy. Without thinking, Hensley pushes her thumb into