Papillon's reply

Dear Jen,

I missed your letters. I didn't even know how much until all the drama left my life, as if when I went through the flat with my very thorough vacuum it was as if our entire fantastic mess was hiding under the bed, not just a warren of dust bunnies and two long-drained wine glasses. The flat positively shines with cleanliness, it is so Zen and neat these days. It is cleanliness that belies idleness that belies loneliness. I love and loathe it all at once. I am thinking of getting a pet gorilla, or maybe an aging game show host, to fill the void.

So you want me out there on Pacific Daylight Time with you. Oh love. How dear. I don't know what to say. You accuse me of a distant royalty act and tell me to drop it. What might you be holding up and peering from behind, though? I half wonder if I'd get there and you'd be living in a fetid two-bedroom with six other bohemians, rather than shooting music videos in a Hollywood mansion. I don't mean you might be lying, I just know that your eyes can make kaleidoscopes of oil slicks. But really—what would I do there? Here I am employed, for the first time in ages, despite my ridiculous disabilities and checkered work history. What work is there for a deaf receptionist in Lala Land, love? And you know how we get when one or both of us is too often at leisure.

It has been forever since Jersey Pier. Leave it to you to know just which buttons to push and levers to pull to get the secretary's heart flip flopping under her cardigan. (New, babe, Abercrombie, and staid plaid, not sunny plaid – how d'you hate that?) Maybe forever means it's time to move on, but here's my proposal: You tell me what it is I would gainfully do out there with you. And if it passes my distant royalty test—Mutt and I'll be there. Greyhounded, grumpy, frumpy, and utterly yours.

I'll sign off now, your butterfly a bit too comfortable yet in the cocoon, but awaiting your response,
Your dear
Papillon