A Letter from Meridian

Dearest Bill,

When I woke up next to you two weeks ago, I was horrified. The McNasty, his mother, and I had been doing shots of Southern Comfort in the kitchen for four hours after the rest of the potential donors had said their adieus and I was, needless to say, hammered. I went walking in the garden to clear my head and found myself reminiscing over lost love and the trials of my early life. I know it’s horribly cliché, probably makes a writer like you cringe just to read a sentence like that, but it’s true. And in that haze of alcohol and melancholy remembrance I found you, sitting there in the gazebo, alone. I had never seen, let alone, met anyone like you (I don’t mean a Jew, by the way, some of my best friends, well, at least my agent and my lawyers, they’re all Jews). I lied about having read your play. I was plastered enough to not be disturbed by your encyclopedic knowledge of my career. I was so shit-housed, frankly, that your dead-on impression of me in Sisters was actually amusing as opposed to terror inducing. And I could barely keep my eyes on you as we slept together. I thought of, well, anything but what we were doing.

And yet, something about you lingers in a way no one has lingered for me for years. Maybe it was those strange braids of yours draped across my heaving chest. Maybe it was the gruff yet gentle aroma of saddle leather and parchment that seemed to ooze out of all of your pores. And, it could just be my own narcissistic delight in your clear obsession with me. Whatever it was, whatever it is, and I can’t believe I am saying this here and now, whatever it is that is keeping you on my mind I… I… I want to see you again. Please call me.

Sela

YEAH BABY!!!!