The weak winter sun has melted the dusting of snow and the ice has turned to cold isolated puddles. The exhaust from her car is leaving a low-hanging fog in the parking lot. He has loaded her small bag in her trunk and is standing by her door. She has the window down to say good-bye. “I liked your letters. So please only write me letters,” she says. Joe is unsure how to answer. “No texts, or emails, or calls. I don’t want that,” she says. Joe still doesn’t know how to answer. “It would be too immediate, too much in the now. Having chosen to live the way we are going to, having made our arrangement, our bargain, our deal, any email would be an instantaneous demand to write you back in that instant without thinking. Your letters are tangible, but they’re not demanding. They do not call for an instant reply,” she says. “They are something I can tolerate, something I can accept, something that fits into my world.”
