Readers are encouraged to imagine a yellowed parchment sealed with wax, and an elegant but disturbed script, autographed with a dandy flourish.
My dearest Celine--
I’d been warned of you, my pet, and of your fickle ways. Of the avarice lurking beneath your chaste exterior, the deceit spoiling in the ambrosia of your lilting voice. Oh, I refused to believe the stories--- that there was no promise too grand nor too idle, so long as there was a man’s heart for you to rend. It was but suspicion and jealousy that made the others speak so, and envy. For you had always been so coy with me, and yet so good. When you made your October invitation to me, I thought I should faint.
But your cancellation made a fool of me, my peach pit, and the manner with which you cast about for the most transparent excuse only made me want to retch with anguish. A respiratory virus, you claimed, some affliction that made you gently wheeze. Consider this-- no microbe is too vexing, no catarrh too debilitating to keep me from you, oh apple of my desire. And yet you cast me aside, and insulted me with your mild complaint.
Your renewed promise, to meet on December 18th, is your cruelest turn yet, for, despite myself, I feel wicked hope churning once more. I am but a man, my dearest, and though I shame myself for desiring you so deeply, I know that my protestation is but a joke to my own weak will. I look forward to our winter meeting. But should you withdraw once more, I shall be made certain that I am but a plaything to you.
I remain fondly yours,