His handwriting was terrible...that was abundantly clear...and he normally never wrote her anything in pen but rather used his phone or his laptop. But in the letter he wanted it to be authentic...to be real and clear and as close to perfect as possible.
He wanted to let her know he had found a bunch of unfinished notes and finally finished them off...snippets of stories and randomness...dating back many years...and they deserved to be finished and put out there...
He also wanted her to know that she was fine. Not in the sense of how she felt...rather, like china...or an exceptional bourbon.
Nobody used the word fine any more except to use it as a neutral word for being okay...words like refined were an attempt to redefine the word.
Fine...it was rare...fine art, fine wine...why not fine humans...fine women? He tried to convey his pitiful thoughts as he scribed...not sure of the end results but at least he wanted to stop comparing her to all the others and have her realize she was uniquely herself.
She was fine. Supremely fine.
And the only thing better than fine was finer...and that she was growing finer to him...maybe she had started in one place but as the years played out it was conspicuous that she was that rarity...of fine becoming finer.
And he hoped the note made her feel so.
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