"She was good at talking, in fact. But she was excellent at silence."
I would like to think there is a difference between deconstructing a great story and praising it. My aim here is the latter.
This story, written more than ten years ago by icicle, is worth reading several times, because I think the reader will realize that there are small details missed on a cursory glance. It is a very nuanced discussion on metaphor, art and the loudness an empty room makes after a lover moves away.
I think it is simple to misread this little piece of fiction as a story about postcards, but it is some much more than that. It talks about what she remembers about her lover, what she imagines her lover intends by sending the notes (that are not really notes) and also- and here is the tricky part, why she thinks the audience doesn't grasp the significance of the postcards (the person "listening" to the explanation, is a false witness). Icicle is telling a story to someone, (and we are listening in on that story).
While she is "talking" we (the second audience) knows the narrator believes her friend (?) is unable to grasp the wonder that Charlotte was, as though anyone could ever see her in the way the writer saw her.
More than once Icicle can almost be seen shaking her head in dismay, realizing that she is recalling details that others either never noticed, or simply never appreciated.
Despite her frustration, the writer gives us a snapshot of her heart. A short story about postcards that say nothing; a love song without words.