by Lizzie Searle

Dear Jack,

Darling I miss you. It hurts this far away. It’s pleasurable.

I know you miss me so much more than I miss you.

You’re needy and pathetic and rich. I love you.

I love the nights we sing together, huddled on the same piano stool or better still when I recline across your baby grand in Fifth Avenue.

I know you’re well – you’re seeing me tomorrow! Thanks for asking, I could not be better.

No one could.

Today I polished off my third first-class essay this week and was sent more flowers from an anonymous admirer.

Bless. They’re bonny.

With love as always and best wishes that one day I might write just one first-class essay, that I could not be better and that you might exist.

p.s. There are no flowers and they’re not bonny.