Letters to the indifferent interior

Dear B--

On the last circumstantial meeting request you posted your nose like a wine drunk cowboy to the light filtered behind the window where we were eating. Smeared grease stain mark on the spot above your head there and I was halfway through the soup before I fogged out and mistook the small outer spoon for a very weak weapon--hefting this and that to the opening produced by my face.

I don't care to call the operator anymore for assistance. Her unfathomable creulty is like the weather and sometimes I wind up talking to people that aren't even there. For instance, last Wednesday when the patch was put through to Minneapolis, all of the neighbors were listening in and so I continued in code until only enough breath to sustain one awkward conversation filled the space between my own lips and the ear of whoever was listening, and by that point I was pretty sure it was only her. Listening and not responding "Letter f downplayed the importance of howzits named calf bottom and the meat freezer is no longer full" If only she weren't this way with my insisting so. I could hear papers rustling behind her and the small tick of a fan's blades. It was not easy to convince the other people who had stopped listening and set their ends down to believe that their silence was not exactly an electrical current and that coursing through me were channels of all sorts. A hockey station, the last kiss of an elephant on the mouth, train terminals filling, my part in all of this--however small and inconclusive.

The last letter you sent covers part of the wall. Your handwriting is immaculate. I will continue waiting and try to shout less, as you have requested.

Yours,