February 8, 1995

Dear Clay,

Life has fallen apart. Isn't that kind of a trite thing to say? And yet, we say it and it is true. What was supposed to last a lifetime, isn't. Is this any way to write what I think will be the first of many love letters to you? I am a brazen heart-sick fool, but you won't know that yet because this letter will be rewritten, tidied up, before I mail it, or will it even get it into an envelope with a stamp on it and your address. I have lots of stationery and the feel of my favorite pen in my hand has long been a comforting act, ever since I saw the green marbled Esterbrook fountain pen in the glass case at Ben Franklin's. That was a long time ago Clay. Will I let on about my obsession with writing now? Or, will that just become obvious when I fill your mailbox with ramblings penned over plumerias?

How do I end this? Sincerely. That's lame. Love. No not yet, although I think I could. That's silly. Get a grip. Lustingly yours. That's more like it. But, I'll tidy that up.

Sophie