The first listing I went to was the one that used to read E.L. Dayton, and the address. I spent a lot of time staring at that listing when I was sixteen, running my fingers over the ink and imagining the lust-filled missives I'd send to Kelli now that I knew where she lived. Finally acting on those fantasies, I sent one letter to her – more of a note, actually: it was written on a piece of paper about the size of a gum wrapper. In it, I suggested (in a roundabout manner, mind you) that I'd be more than happy to lick Kelli's feet — the most polite, vaguely sexual act I could muster the nerve to offer. I spent hours tossing in bed the night I mailed it, wishing to God that I could somehow retrieve the letter before it went out, scheming as to how I might lay in wait for the mailman outside Kelli's house and snatch the letter as soon as it was deposited in the mailbox. I sweated it out for three days – frantic as a murderer who knows the law is about to swoop down – before Kelli, adrift on an inflatable raft in Gina's swimming pool, told me she got my letter and would be happy to take me up on the offer.
