Dear Sir or Madam,

I have written recently on the subject of the innocence of Youth and of those souls who still shine from having bathed in its waters. Now, I think it is time to discuss the loss of innocence, which is as potent a thing as the abstract of Innocence itself. Innocence lost is ‘la mort invisible,’ the unseen death. The jaded body walks the wonderless world, slowly rotting, not knowing why. It is an exquisite thing!

Some people don’t lose their innocence even years after they lose their virginity, all the while thinking they’re so worldly and mature. Children today run to lose their innocence like they do their baby teeth, and the exchange is not dissimilar. Except instead of a magical fairy swapping cuspids for currency, you find a manged Albanian prostitute eying you through her conjunctivitis with inverse revulsion as she darns decaying stockings with bellybutton hair, murmuring just audibly some cutting remark that will eat at your self-confidence until you’re seventy-three. Ex. Quis. Ite.

Two nights ago, I was in the eclectic area of the city I happened to be gracing. You know the type. The air is thick with the odour of saffron and bourbon and the walls are creeping with a moss of rock band and head shop stickers extending radially because no one wants to place theirs by itself. I was skulking about because I had a sudden desire to see a nude nun. Witness the pale, rumpled skin of the cloistered and trace the scars of wounds self-inflicted in the name of the Lord, whose name I’d surely take in vain as I rush with orgasm — I was in a weird place. Anyway, it was in this bohemian nexus that I encountered a girl of about twenty.

She said that she was waiting for somebody and that her name was Doris. I offered to wait with her and she said, “OK,” in a nervous tone, as if I’d offered to massage her ears. I asked her whom she waited for and she said, “A friend.”
“Male or female?”
She blushed, “My boyfriend.”

And although she was unavailable, I continued to sit and wait and play at the idea of being infatuated with dear, doting Doris. I had no interest in stealing her away from Mr. Boyfriend — too much time to do it properly, and the stress of seduction would likely mar that which made her so attractive. She had a slight, natural smile that would likely become set in time like artisaned grooves in maple. I bought her a cherry cola and a red scrunchie and a brass whistle which, to my delight, she played with great virtuosity. I told her a secret; it made her frown. She nodded solemnly and told me a lavender bit of whimsy which meant absolutely nothing, but could be taken as testament to all the world’s loveliness.

Boyfriend Boyfriend never arrived, but there was a phone call during our time together that made Doris inconsolably silent for an hour. Inferences could be made, but the sun was setting gloriously and a breeze from down the street carried new scents and sensations. “I think I’m going to go home now,” said she suddenly.
“Would you like to see a nude nun with me?”
“No thank you. I’m going home.”
“The world loves you, Doris. I only agree.”
“OK. Bye.”

I watched her walk away, moving me from her thoughts like a sunbeam crosses a dusty carpet as the hours pass. I wondered what had made her so sad. I wondered what had ever made her so serene. I wondered if it would be easier to strip a clothed nun or find a dead one or something. Then I let all wonderances fall and bought a quick, expensive dinner. No time for such thoughts in our wonderless world. Not for the innocent.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site