She was already forty-four and what meaning, if any, was there to her existence?  What good had she done for anyone, for even one person?   Well, there was that time in high school when she read stories to people in the nursing home.  Other than that, zilch.  Long divorced, she lived alone in an apartment and seemed to herself to amount to little.  No one needed her.

It made her afraid.  Not in any burn-in-hell kind of way, but more like a feeling that she was not progressing, was being left behind as hordes of spiritual students moved on up while she still sat in the back of some dark classroom, a disappointing child.  There were, she was aware, people who performed phenomenal acts of charity, like donating a kidney to a perfect stranger, adopting handicapped children or laboring for years in some third world backwater, dressing the sores of lepers.  Did such people experience emotions that lesser, selfish people did not?  Even everyday mothers executed all sorts of feats to promote the well-being of their love ones.  Most everyone had some meaning, made the world  better, even if only slightly, in some way or other.

While ruminating on such matters, her expression almost tragic, Karla arrived, as was her habit, an hour before the office opened, letting herself in by her own key.  She’d been granted one, as were the doctors and the head nurse, due to the relative importance of her job, that of    handling insurance forms and dealing with insurance companies.  You could always replace a nurse, but someone who understood the intricate ins and outs of insurance hell?  That wouldn’t be so easy.  Karla knew for a fact that there were at least two other office suites in this medical arts building alone that would hire her in a second. All she’d have to do would be to walk in and say the word.

Dr. Patel arrived.  He always came in the back and Karla could hear him clunking things around in his office.  His first name was unpronounceable, so everyone called him Mike.  The name did not fit him.  He was short, build something like a penguin and as smooth skinned as a girl.  Karla estimated that he was around forty.  He apparently had no wife or girlfriends.  Why?  Probably due to his looks.  Unfortunately, the mating scene ran on looks.  She had suffered this herself, not that she was ugly but just rather average. Poor Dr. Patel was leaning toward ugly, poor man.  She was pretty sure he was lonely.  His eagerness when anyone in the office invited him to anything gave him away.

The next to arrive was Rondelle, the head nurse.  Karla was not particularly fond of Rondelle.  The tall, zaftig black woman was quick to state her opinions about everything, even when they were definitely not asked for.  For instance, she had pointed out to Karla more than once how hairy her arms were and shouldn’t she consider having laser hair removal?  Or how Karla’s hair was rather lank and maybe a perm would perk it up.  Rondelle offered such criticisms to everyone in the office, even the doctors.  She was not impressed by rank. 

Rondelle’s husband had run off without any warning, leaving his wife alone to raise three children, the youngest in kindergarten and the oldest a boy of fifteen who was beginning to show the negative signs of fatherlessness. Rondelle did not hide her frustration and fear over the situation.  It had been two years since the husband had flown and Karla knew that the woman rarely had a moment of pleasure.  And as Rondelle would be the first to point out, her old king sized bed looked like the Sahara desert, so vast was its emptiness.

Karla pushed her (lank) hair behind her ears, booted up her computer and clicked to open a form she’d been working on the day before, a difficult case, one of those patients with chronic pain that seemed to have no concrete cause.  Mr. Downs had been in biweekly for a couple of years and his insurance company occasionally rebelled.  It was Karla’s job to soothe them and simultaneously look for the loophole that would allow Mr. Downs to continue his treatments.  Dr. Wang, was trying some traditional Chinese medicine on him, although they had to list conventional treatment codes on his forms.  She supposed that could be construed to be insurance fraud, but who had set themselves up as the Almighty Judge of Medicine and declared that only the Western kind was permissible?  Karla’s blood rose, ready for a battle.  Face flushed and keys clicking, she began her counter attack.

Two more docs and the nurse practitioner arrived, along with the other two nurses.  Chrissy, the youngest, unlocked the front door to let patients filter in, tracking slush on the carpet.  It was March, just before the start of mud season.  Everyone was desperate for sun.

By ten, Karla had Mr. Downs’ insurance company properly chastised and now apologetic.  She slipped into the tiny back room the staff used for breaks and tried to ignore Chrissy speaking desperately to someone on her cell phone.  She wasn’t going to last here, Karla thought, not if she made a habit of sneaking back here to make highly emotional phone calls.                           Back at her terminal, Karla again considered the meaning of life.  She had another difficult case to deal with, this one a woman with back pain that no one had been able to diagnose.  Mrs. DiMaggio had been put fruitlessly through every test known to medicine, at least in these parts.  Karla suspected it was a psychiatric problem, but the woman refused to see anyone.  There was the distinct possibility of malingering, so Karla’s enthusiasm for fighting for this patient had worn thin. 

For the moment, she stopped and sat still.  What exactly was the meaning of if all?  Were humans nothing after all, but intelligent animals running about to no purpose?  Acquiring heaps of belongings and symbols of status for similar reasons as the peacock flashing his feathered tail or the crow collecting junk that glittered in the sun?  Or did all of this misery that people endured exist in order to teach them something?  If so, what exactly?  Why did Dr. Patel resemble a stocky penguin and have no woman waiting to listen to his stories at the end of the day?   Why did Rondelle have to kill herself working to support a family while her husband lived it up like a carefree college student?  Why did someone as young as Chrissy have to make desperate phone calls? 

Then there was Karla herself.  She too went home at night to no one.  If she had any stories to tell, and she usually did, to find anyone even mildly interested in hearing them, she would have to make several phone calls.  But her friends were having dinner with their partners or driving kids to wrestling matches, soccer games, or music lessons.  If she managed to catch one not in a whirlwind, the friend was tired and only wanted a breather on the couch with the remote control in hand.  Not to dissect situations on the telephone with someone not related, not connected, not important to their well-being.

Not that she could blame them.  She had a sister and brother, both married with kids.  Her sister was run ragged, her brother overworked.  No, Karla did not begrudge people with full lives needing their rare moments of peace and quiet.  But God, it was lonely sometimes, being a divorced woman with few, if any, single friends and not a romantic relationship in sight.  She had to think hard to remember the last time she’d gone on a date.  Wasn’t it that David Wiley her sister-in-law had fixed her up with?  The one whose breath smelled like a dead rat and who giggled at anything remotely sexual?  Speaking of sex or anything close to it, the last time she engaged in that was six years before.  Steve Dowdy, a rather nice man, not too exciting, but then she supposed she hadn’t excited him either, since he stopped calling.  Her short marriage to Vic was so long ago, she hardly remembered much about it.  Vic had remarried and had two children.

Why were some people fated to have love in their lives, while others were not?  Did it have to do with karma, as some claimed?  Had poor Mike Patel done something atrocious in a former life and now was doomed to being unappealing and alone to compensate?  Had she herself perhaps been someone who cheated on a spouse or broke up marriages, so now must pay by having no one to matter?

Rondelle suddenly loomed by her desk, wearing a fierce expression.  “Karla,” she said, “you have a letter.”  She tossed the envelope onto Karla’s keyboard.  Fortunately, it was light weight.

Surprised, Karla picked it up and turned it over. The writing was masculine and seemed familiar.  Her heart did a flip-flop.  With unwarranted anticipation, she ripped it  open and pulled out a letter.  It was from a local environmental group inviting her to attend a fun raiser.  The whole thing had resembled a personal letter instead of an ad.  Her disappointment was palpable.  But what had she expected?  A love letter?  How silly of her.

Suddenly, she felt miserable.  It was as if someone had picked her up, held her high, then let her drop.  For a moment there, she’d felt the way she remembered feeling in junior high when some boy she had a crush on happened to stare at her or speak to her in the hall.  Panic/pleasure rolled into one.

She tossed the letter into the trash can.  Maybe she should make an appointment with one of the doctors and take an antidepressant.  With a forlorn sigh, she returned to the insurance forms.

Sometime later, it came to her that if the letter had indeed been some kind of love letter, even an anonymous one, how it would have lightened her day.  Made all the humdrum business of living worthwhile, if only for a moment.  She stopped typing to lean back in her chair.  Rondelle was on the phone, standing stiffly, her face tense.  Was it one of the kids?  Something happened at school? 

Karla wondered how Rondelle would feel if she were to receive an anonymous love letter.  Some person who’d had his eye on her for a while and just wanted to tell her she was beautiful.  Would Rondelle assume the man was a stalker?  That some night she would hear the crash of glass as someone broke in, and it would be her love letter man holding a knife?  What if the letter were worded in a gentle, sweet way, not in the possibly borderline psycho manner of the stalker?  An old fashioned wording, perhaps, as a knight might use when writing to his lady. 

The idea kept forming in Karla’s mind.  Over the next few days, she dropped to sleep thinking of it, ate her meals while imagining it.  Could this be an opportunity for her to bring happiness to others, to have some meaning, if only a small one?

She decided to send Rondelle such a letter herself.  Only one, a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.  She would write it in the style of an educated, sensitive male in love.  What about the hand writing?  Could she alter her own writing to a masculine style?  Should she even hand write it at all?  What if Rondelle were to investigate and check out everyone’s handwriting; what if Karla couldn’t disguise her own sufficiently?

Could a love letter be typed?   The idea seemed ludicrous, but wouldn’t the very fact that the letter is anonymous point to a need for the sender’s handwriting to be hidden?  Of course it could be typed.  But on whose computer?  It wouldn’t do to risk exposure by using just any computer.  Her mother had one that she never used, but if the police ever began tracking down - Karla stopped herself.  Why would the police be involved?   Only if the recipients felt threatened, if for some reason she (or he?) believed the sender was a stalker!

Clearly, she would have to word such a letter carefully.  There was also the problem of the recipient wondering why the supposedly smitten sender never sends more letters, nor does anything else to promote a relationship.  Karla pondered a moment, then nodded.  Ah, the sender was not in a position to promote a relationship. The sender was married or already attached somehow, or ill, or going away soon for a very long time or indisposed in some other romantic way.  In prison, perhaps?  No, definitely not romantic.  Unless wrongly accused, but then didn’t most prisoners consider themselves wrongly accused?  Okay, not a prisoner. How about someone younger? In Rondelle’s case, she was what - late thirties?  So make the guy twenty-five, or even twenty-three.  He’s so embarrassed to even write the letter, even if it is anonymous, but he just can’t help himself, etc., etc.

Dr. Patel stuck his sleek head out of the door leading to the examining rooms, and crooked his finger.  Karla looked around - was he beckoning to her?

“Karla,” he whispered rather desperately.  “Come here!”

Warily, she stood up.  She didn’t really have much to do with the back rooms and only superficially with the doctors.

“I wonder if you could help me get rid of Mr. Helmsly.  Distract him or something?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly said, “The nurses are fed up with him.”

Mr. Helmsly was a loudmouthed bore who insisted on accompanying his seventy-four year old wife to all her appointments, which were frequent, and threatened the doctors bodily harm unless they performed miracles.

“He’s driving me up a wall,” said Dr. Patel.

It was then, when she looked into his eyes, that she saw the sweet timidity there and the idea sprang to mind.  The doctor could use a love letter of his own!   A nice little romantic tidbit, nothing serious, just something from an admirer to cheer his day.  If she sent two, would he and Rondelle compare and discuss?  She thought not.  Personal gossip between the nurses and the doctors here was not usual and besides, Rondelle thought Mike Patel was a wuss.  He’d probably be afraid to tell anyone.

Feeling warmer towards him now, Karla whispered back, “I’ll take care of Mr. Helmsley,” and brushed past him.  With some self pride, she located the man by his loud voice, appealed to his vanity by requesting his help with his wife’s insurance forms and earned a grateful smile from the doctor.

See, I do have some effect on the world, however small, Karla thought, smiling to herself.

That evening, she paid a visit to her mother, having decided to take the chance with the older, unused computer.  “Mom,” she said, trying to appear honest, “I need to use your computer.  My printer’s acting up again.  You don’t mind, do you?”

Naturally not.  “I’ll just go make some tea for when you’re through,” said her mother and that was that. 

The letters were a pleasure to write.  Karla found the creation of imaginary characters to be so much fun that she temporarily forgot who she was.  For a while, she was a lovelorn young man who occasionally watched Rondelle buying her lunch or running errands and wished he were at least ten years older and had more cash and then boy, would he ever take her out for an evening she wouldn’t forget.  He described how he’d love to see her all dressed up, how he would order for her the best wine and the best entree on the menu and then take her for a ride in his Porsche (or Jaguar) wherever she wanted to go.  Anywhere at all. 

Mike Patel was a bit more difficult, but she came up with a married woman who had met him once at the local hospital where she’d been visiting a patient and then later come in contact through a social event.  Karla had to keep it vague because she knew Dr. Patel occasionally attended parties in the Indian community and she didn’t want to limit the woman to any particular ethnic group.  His admirer had children (Karla did not mention exactly how many) and worked part-time (she did not specify what sort of work), but often had time at home in which she fantasized about the doctor.  Her husband had had an affair, so she did not feel guilty doing so, although she was not the sort to actually act on her desire.  It was enough to know that Mike existed and she could pass him now and then on the street or in various public buildings.  He had such nice eyes, she said, such shiny ebony hair, such beautiful hands. 

When she was finished, she printed out the little masterpieces and, using latex gloves so as to leave no finger prints, sealed the letters (using a damp kleenex instead of her tongue to leave no DNA evidence) and slipped them into her purse.  Rondelle’s was addressed to the office and Dr. Patel’s to his home.

Pleased with herself, Karla enjoyed her mother’s tea and banana bread, then exuberantly left to mail the letters on her way home at a mailbox on a dark corner.  Before doing so, she again put on the gloves.  Having watched many a police show on TV, she knew all the angles.

As soon as she let go of the handle and heard the letters drop into the box, she saw quite clearly what she was doing.  Quite simply, she was distracting herself.  Creating a minor drama so that she could momentarily avoid her own loneliness, pretend it did not exist.  She was not, after all, doing some great kindness.  A part of her that seemed to stand apart watched this with dispassion. 

When she got back to her apartment, she did not enjoy the good feeling she had imagined she would after carrying out her scheme.  Instead she found herself sobbing until she slept.

Rondelle came into work three days later wearing a grin.  She had a look about her of someone amused with the world.  “What choo doin’, girrrrl?” she said to Karla, in exaggerated street vernacular.  “Stop whatever it is and look at what I got in the mail yesterday!  Don’t know who the hell it’s from, but I’ll tell you, it made my day.  Some little white boy having his dreams about me, but that’s okay, it made me feel good.  Something I’ve not been feeling for a long time, I’ll tell you!”  She thrust the letter at Karla.

After pretending to read it carefully, Karla said, “How do you know it’s a white boy?”

“That’s all you got to say?  It just sounds like one, that’s all.  What do you think of it?  Know anyone around here who could have done that?”

“I think it’s nice, Rondelle.  Nice to know that someone admires you like that.”  She had the odd sensation that the letter had moved beyond her, that now it had little, if anything, to do with her. “No, I don’t know who it could be.  There’re lots of young men around here - they come in for office visits, they work on that construction across the street and at the video store and go into the grocery store at lunch time.”   There was a combination supermarket/liquor store next door.

“Yeah, but it must be someone who sees me on a regular basis.  Weird.  But, hey, I like it.”  Suddenly her face clouded.  “But I hope it’s not some crazy stalker or anything.  I hope he doesn’t know where I live.”

“I doubt it, Rondelle,” Karla quickly said.   “Aren’t stalkers usually someone you know and maybe dated?  Unless you’re a public figure or something.”

Whether Rondelle worried more about the stalking thing, Karla didn’t know.  She never mentioned the letter again, but there definitely was a bounce to her step, at least for a few days.

Dr. Patel, not in the habit of sharing confidences with the staff, naturally did not mention his letter, but he appeared to have a glint in his eye.   He was wearing an outfit Karla had not seen  before: a black turtleneck tucked into tan, sharply pressed slacks and a belt with a hand worked silver buckle.  His hair, instead of being combed back in his usual manner of a nineteen-twenties heart throb was now hanging  over his eyes and free of grease.  He had slipped on his doctor coat, but left it hanging open, perhaps to show off his new ensemble.  When he made a point of stepping out into the waiting room/office area, Karla was certain there was a swagger to his step.

“Doctor,” she said, acknowledging his presence.  From her terminal, she had a clear view of everything in the room.

He leaned over the counter.  “You can call me Mike, you know.  You don’t have to keep referring to me as ‘Doctor.’  After all, you’ve been working here four years.”

He was aware that she had been there four years?  She thought he barely knew her name.

“But surely not in front of the patients,” she countered.

His dark head swiveled around to take in the three that were sitting there.  “No, I suppose not,” he agreed.  “But when no one is around, yes.”

She did not ask when no one would be around, but her heart thudded oddly.  After Mike returned to the examining rooms, she considered his behavior.  Clearly, he had received his letter and taken it to heart.  Absorbed it, used it as nourishment.  And it had improved him, no doubt about it.  In less than a week, he appeared to have grown an inch or two, lost a couple of pounds, practically turned into someone else - a better looking twin perhaps, one with  self-confidence.  She had a moment of ambivalent feeling - pride that it was she who had brought this transformation about, mixed with a strange sensation of loneliness, as if now that Mike had slightly improved, he was out of her league.  But what league was that?  The League of Wretched Losers?                        

Mr. Krahowksi stood up and approached the counter where Rondelle was hovering, though not at the moment looking fierce.  “Are the appointments running on time?” he asked testily.  Whereas usually Rondelle would have bitten his head off, now she simply smiled (remotely) and said, “Everything is running smoothly today.  Dr. Patel will see you next.” 

Karla saw Rondelle’s eyes lift over Mr. Krahowski’s head to take in the young man sitting in the corner.  He had his legs crossed in the manner of a British aristocrat and was idly leafing through a Newsweek.  In his twenties with hair like corn silk, eyes downcast, their long lashes projecting shadows over his cheeks.  Was this the one who had sent the letter?  Karla watched Rondelle scan him for clues.  She looked alive, interested, enthusiastic.  Perhaps it had all been for good after all.  Even if indeed it had just been a distraction to keep Karla from thinking and feeling.

Two days passed with Rondelle speculatively observing young males and Mike Patel wearing racier clothing.  Did he have, perhaps, a sister who was helping him create this new appearance?  Or had he suddenly found a girlfriend? 

That Friday afternoon, they closed early.  Their three o’clock had canceled and Mrs. Wright, who would have been the three-fifteen, was vacationing in Florida. Dr. Wang and the other docs were at their other offices.  Everyone had cleared out while Karla was sorting forms for Monday.  She had just shut down the computer when Mike Patel’s now shaggy head appeared at the counter. 

“Are you involved with anyone, Karla?”

The question seemed shocking, but after a moment’s hesitation, she answered him.  “Not really,” she said.

“Me neither,” said the doctor.

Karla experienced a sinking sensation. 

“Would you be interested in going out with me?  I mean to dinner or to the movies maybe?”

She gulped. The thought flashed through her mind that she had created a monster.  Her second thought was that she did not really know Mike Patel, though she had formed rather solid opinions about him based on appearance and timid behavior, assumptions that would likely be difficult to dissolve. 

“Would you mind if I think about it?” she asked him.

“Not at all,” he replied.  “I realize that I am not Brad Pitt.”

She laughed. 

As she drove home, she mulled it over.  This mulling would continue for days; if she permitted it.  He did not excite her physically.  She was taller by a good two inches.  Was he unattractive enough to embarrass her in front of other people?  Or was he the sort who would excite her sexually by some tactile or intellectual means and soon she would forget his less than stellar appearance?  Did appearance matter when we were all headed for old age anyway, when everyone eventually grew unattractive?  Would she possibly fall in love with his mind, his humor, his kindness?  Assuming he was kind and not the sort to turn unpleasant after he had her under his spell? 

By the time she unlocked her door, she was desperate for an evening of no thought whatsoever.  To pop in a DVD that would distract her as the letters had done, for now indeed she was living, having to make decisions, having to choose between staying on the sidelines or taking a risk that could lead to pleasure or pain, to meaning or to nothing at all.