And it’s true that no one pines for me, as he does for her, and that it will not be me that walks with him on the beach at Grayland under the Cosmo Moon. Yet, I must confess, I’m thinking of going, of hiding myself in the beach grass to see what he might be like. And it is possible you know, that the brilliance of the Cosmo Moon would illuminate something in me that is worthy of a pining heart. But still, you’re right, it is unlikely.

Stop it! You make this harder than it ought to be. You who do such a poor job of hiding your contempt. You think I’m mad or worse that I would hold this tender heart in so calloused a hand; but I was tender once, if you can believe it. The years have played hard with me, driven “tender” deep beneath the crust. And yet when I read this letter, I ached for just a moment of recaptured innocence, of cosmic possibility brushed against my lips. I longed to hold, for just the passing of a breath, the hope of being loved beyond belief. Yes, even I.

Can it truly be that this letter was not for me? That all possibilities are gone?

And if that’s true, what would you have me do? Seal this letter up again, leave it on yet another sea-foam blue Geo Metro in the parking lot of the Super Mall?

And if I do not, and I choose instead to lay on my belly in the beach grass on the night of the Cosmo Moon, will I peek through the stems and see the moonlight press your form and his against the breaking surf?