There isn’t a day that goes by in which your name doesn’t escape my lips, even if I don’t quite know who you are exactly. Although I’m sure they’ll work out the kinks before they send you this message. Humor me. This is boilerplate. And it sustains the illusion that you and I know each other or are capable of having a conversation beyond the almighty books that separate us or serve, in their rightful way, as a kind of surrogate restraining order.
When I immerse my smooth legs into the sudsy veneer of my bubble bath, I wonder why you can’t be there with me traversing the soapy filament. You rock my bathroom environment, [insert first name here], because maybe you are those bubbles. If you have five o’clock shadow, your stubble might bristle against my goosebumped flesh at the end of the day. Not unlike the bubbles. I know you slide your hard-earned money across the smooth surface of the bookstore counter to purchase my books, and I can confidently divine that you would exercise the same fastidiousness in sliding your way across my counterpane. Assuming, of course, that you can pass the intelligence test.
I should warn you, [insert first name here], that I am a married woman. But my four ventricles will beat hot and heavy for you if you do not cower at my great intellect and if you can willfully abdicate your masculinity, your pride, and your thoughts on the mortgage you are now paying in an aggressive game of tennis. You’ve read Double Fault, yes? Well, let us quadruple fault and find folly in two universes. Let us not talk about Kevin, unless your name is Kevin. [Note to editor: Remove last sentence if recipient is named Kevin.] I am sure you come from a perfectly good family, but, like Peggy Atwood, I do not suffer fools gladly. So please come prepared.
Love,
Lionel
(via Bookninja)