When she arrived, we had a quick round of small talk, ordered our lunch, and smoked a cigarette. Then she handed me a whole sheaf of papers printed out from her e-mail account. They were of the love letter variety, and it was clear whoever’s voice this was came from a person very taken with her, and for reasons of their own was a little scared about it but couldn’t manage to stay away from her for very long. I skimmed through most of what she’d handed me, wondering why I was given this to read in the first place. I asked, “This happens to you a lot, doesn’t it?” which was, of course, an underhanded way of highlighting my own feelings for her that were never returned, and I immediately felt ashamed and sorry.
She told me the whole story about her and this man, who had begun his journey wit
