I knew she’d taken the receiver off the hook.

I hadn’t even suspected that she might have hung it on another, and tried to call someone else.

The original idea was to draw that jealous spark of yours and find her by the greenshifted light.

But she never wanted to be found. Not by me.

My mistake, but I guess they all are.

In fairness, I did say I was a hopeless case without you.

A “spark” is a funny thing, though; by the time she was in, I had all but forgotten my own and was so thoroughly soaked-through with whiskey that I couldn’t see any difference between viridian and luridian.

By the time I realized she had cut me off, I was aware of the distinction but not the practical implications.

Now, dry enough but bleeding from a shot I didn’t know I’d taken, the only way ahead isn’t the sort of thing I should like to tell you about in writing.

Originally, when the moment came to write you about her, I intended to enclose the handful of secrets I’ve acquired since the bridge, and since I met her; as I’ve said, you and she share an alley, and those are right down the middle of it.

Best laid plans, god fucking damn.

But that’s the thing, right?

The walking, writing, weeping wound can’t scab or scar or stop, and waiting was never on the table.

Or under it. Ask me how I know.

So.

Next-to-last evening with one more hellish round of wellbound mail I’ll attach your card to one last letter written to her in recursive and closed with love the way you do.