The Envelope Marked Next Summer

When Pavel found the envelope behind a loose cupboard panel, he recognised his own handwriting before remembering its contents. At twenty-three, he had written a list of things he would do the following summer. He was forty-six now, repairing the kitchen before selling the flat. The envelope had travelled through three moves without being opened.

The list included crossing a desert, learning the trumpet and leaving the town permanently. Pavel had achieved none of them. For several minutes, he examined his ordinary life as though it were an inadequate answer to a question set by somebody younger and more demanding. His partner found him sitting among screws with the paper on his knee.

She suggested choosing one item now. He laughed at the desert, then surprised himself by defending it. He had genuinely wanted that journey once, before desire had become mixed up with the need to sound interesting. The trumpet, however, had belonged to a friend he admired. He could remember the friend more clearly than any wish to play music.

Pavel put the list beside the property documents rather than throwing it away. That night, he researched a short trip to a dry coastal region, somewhere neither heroic nor familiar. He did not book it. First, he wanted to ask his partner whether she would enjoy going. The younger man in the envelope had imagined travelling alone; the older one was allowed different company.