For some reason, every now and then emails of an intimate nature -- meant for other individuals -- show up in my account, usually followed by a brief, embarrassed p.s. note once the authors realize what they've done. The latest arrived overnight.
Its final paragraph:
Honestly, [name withheld], I don't know why I'm sending this to you. I guess I'm hoping for some sort of closure or validation or something. Tell me you want to be with me. Tell me I'm being stupid and friendship is better anyway. Tell me it won't work. Tell me something.
And the follow-up note:
Ha, ha. Wrong address. Wheee!
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Yesterday -- one more gray, cool, foggy morning in northern Vermont:
España, te echo de menos.
rws 6:27 AM [+]
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