It’s true the cat shredded the hem of your silk skirt (jaune) while you were away. And, optimally, the heart leaf philodendron would have been kept minimally moist. I freely admit to seeing the red Final Notice letter arrive for your Stairmaster 7000PT with bottle holder, accessory tray, and reading rack,
and yet, did nothing. You may find it most grievous to learn, when you review the security tapes, that I spent an entire day naked, taking pains to sit most thoroughly on the Wassily chair with the (once) pristine white fabric. Mea maxima culpa.
Perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive me. You may even text to tell me you understand my childish tantrums, that they appear as number four on Dr. Phil’s list of symptoms of a man’s seven-year itch, and that you are ready to foreground my return with some pre-negotiation problem-framing via Skype. Sadly, it may be that I am unable to take your call—out of range, as it happens, ragtop down, needle buried, well south of my last known position.
(from Chicago Quarterly Review, 2014)