I was playing cards with Enid when I thought of you. You and Kate and Anna, and the tree-houses in Paris. I thought, just one more summer and we four could be like Mitford sisters without the national socialism or the made up languages (and which one of us would be Decca?).
A little perspective dearest, surely. I shouldn’t speak so poorly of serious things when the mallow fields are falling to pieces. I’ve a long list and a short list of things I’d rather not say to you, and I’m still trying to decide if I should tell you in past tense or present tense that I miss you. (I have missed you, I did miss you, I was missing you midweek and by Sunday I was not?)
So here we, I mean to say—I am. You’ve read the note from Zoya, I presume. You’ve made up your mind to extract all the important parts and give them the right amount of attention. Editors like you should know better. I meant to ask you before you left, do you think writers are born or made? (And why not me?)
The worst thing in your life is that your cat doesn’t love you, and I don’t love you either.