Letter to Paul Simon from Cecilia (circa. Feb 1970)

Dear Simon,

I’m writing this because, well, you keep showing up at my door with that same sad look, and it’s time we get a few things straight. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your persistence; really, it’s kind of charming in a “lost puppy at the pound” sort of way. But honestly, Simon, you need to take a good look in the mirror (you know, the one that’s currently fogged up because you’re still in the bathroom washing your face for the third time today).

I’m not trying to be mean here, but you do realize that you take longer in there than I do, right? What are you doing? Meditating? Practising your wistful expression for album covers? All I’m saying is, if it’s going to take you 45 minutes to splash some cold water on your cheeks and mumble existential lyrics to your own reflection, I’m not going to stick around. I’ve got things to do, places to be, people to meet. I can’t wait forever while you have a personal Renaissance in front of the sink.

And another thing. The shoelaces. Please. How is it that every time we go for a walk in Central Park, you manage to trip over your own feet? You’re like some kind of folk-singing marionette with a grudge against footwear. I must’ve stood there for a solid half hour in total, just watching you bend over to tie them up again and again. And Simon, I don’t know how else to say this, but nobody wants to see a builder’s crack in Central Park. At least get a belt that works or tighten those jeans up. For someone who’s so loose with your heart, you sure are casual with your pants.

While we’re on the topic of clothes, I’m just going to come out and say it: patchouli and sandalwood are not a substitute for a proper shower. I get it, you’re earthy, you’re connected to the spirit of the universe or whatever, but sometimes a girl just wants her guy to smell like soap, not like he’s been rolling around in a garden bed for three days straight.

And look, I know you mean well when you show up with those flowers you picked on the way over—by the way, my neighbour's begonias are starting to look suspiciously bare—but I don’t need another bouquet of half-wilted weeds to let me know you’ve been thinking about me. Honestly, Simon, just buy a decent bouquet for once. It doesn’t have to be fancy—just, you know, something that doesn’t look like it was pilfered from a roadside ditch.

I don’t want you to think I’m heartless here. I liked you, I really did, with your big soulful eyes and your acoustic guitar strumming like you were serenading the very moon itself. But there’s only so many times a girl can come back home to find you lying on the floor, lamenting your existential despair and begging her to "please, come home." It’s not home if I’m the only one picking up your dirty socks.

So, let’s just call it what it is: a good run. We had some laughs (mostly at your expense), we shared some moments (like that time I nearly died of boredom while you tried to explain the meaning behind every line of your latest song), and we learned a lot (mostly me, about how to untangle myself from awkward situations). You’ll find someone who has the patience to wait around while you philosophize in the bathroom. I’m just not her.

Please don’t take this the wrong way. I think you’re a wonderful guy, just… perhaps better suited for someone with lower standards for personal hygiene and time management. And maybe get some new shoelaces while you're at it.

All the best,
Cecilia