By Malia Vazquez

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January 14th, 2024 – 425 E Delancy St, Apt 4D, the back of the vintage fridge near a jar of pickles.

Dear Casey,

I wish I could explain the feeling I get, eating kimchi straight out of the jar at 2am. I only slightly regret it when bursts of energy knock into me, spices reach my throat, and the fiery coals ignite in my lungs. It's strange when I’m sitting on my kitchen floor, legs crossed in front of the dryer, watching clothes spin and tumble. I scoop up more fermented cabbage, bringing it up to my tingling lips, and the pressing point in my chest seems to ease a little. 
Getting up in the morning is hard. You know that more than anyone, but today took more than it gave. I can’t seem to wipe the sleep from my eyes, yet they won’t close for more than a minute. I’m sorry I don’t like talking about the accident, I know how helpless you feel when you can’t do anything for me. 

Up until this point, I’ve been slowly inching toward the comfortable sheets of darkness the kitchen seems to promise. I close my eyes, and the lights continuously flicker in a humming rhythm, the breeze kissing my skin. It's the gentle thrum of the dryer is at my back, and the cool floor underneath my toes that keeps me on the ground. 

I imagine how different it would be if you were here with me, cross-legged on the floor, feeling the delicious burn in your lungs as the fluorescent lights flicker above us, and you whisper stories to me of when you were younger. 
Tell me more, tell me all of it. You’re all I think about, and I could just die sitting next to you, as we lean over this jar of fiery heaven and secrets. 

Love,

Kai 

P.S. I left some Pancit in the fridge (I’m not sure if you guys have microwaves in the '90's—or if the container will even reach you with this note—but it might take longer for it to heat on yours. I know you have the late shift again, but it's super quick to make, I promise).




Dear Kai,

The thoughts of you seem to swirl in the ink of my pen. It's nearing midnight, and the stillness of the night wraps around me like a comforting shroud, the humming energy of your words breathing into the void. Your description of kimchi-induced euphoria is by all accounts, a masterpiece. I can almost taste the tangy spice on my own tongue, imagining the way it quickens your heartbeat. Your nights are filled with such peculiar rituals – finding solace in the simple act of eating by a dryer. It's endearing and so quintessentially you.

Finding those pockets of peace is so hard sometimes, where time seems to slow and the weight of the world lightens just enough to let me breathe. As I write, The Cranberries are playing in the background (I think you would love them), and I really want to make you Sinigang (Filipino sour soup). I’m not sure why, but I want to make a meal for you, like an impulse. Not leave a container for you in the fridge, like we always do, but prepare a meal for you. You’d lean on the doorway, smiling as you watch me at the stove, and I’d smile, wearing a pink apron you’d get me for valentine’s day. We’d talk about everything. We would exchange the day's tales—mine penned on paper, yours spun from vinyl—and the record store's own melody, a symphony of stories and songs. Linger would be playing in the background as I I see the way your face lights up when you try my Sinigang. Our smiles would mingle in the airy scent of tamarind and tomatoes, much like how I can sense your smile as you read this letter. It's moments like these, enveloped in music and memories, that I feel closest to you.

Keep savoring the good, no matter how fleeting, and cherish the laughter, even if it's tinged with sorrow. These fragments of delight are yours, and no voice—no matter how stern—can take them from you.  As for the Pancit, rest assured, we do have microwaves here in the '90s (I’m a little concerned you thought we didn’t). And though I might not be able to enjoy your cooking with you, in 1.5 minutes, I'll have a piece of your world.

Always here, 

Casey

P.S. Left you two army sized containers of Sinigang for you to try (describing it as an impulse might have been putting it mildly). Also, I think you’d love the album “Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We?”

Process

Inspired by the epistolary form of “How to Lose the Time War” by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone, “Letters of the Magic Fridge” depicts what happens when two people from completely different backgrounds connect, and help each other stay in the present. Using purely the epistolary structure to express any context, we meet Kai, from presumably present day, and Casey, form the ’90s. They meet through an accident with the fridge, that results in them becoming really close, only to discover that their pasts are connected in other ways….