Chapter Text
The letter arrives inconspicuously sandwiched between two utility bills.
Martha doesn’t spot it immediately. She’s exhausted from a long day’s work, exasperated by the swiftly approaching end of the school term, as well as the summer heat that seems inescapable. Walking four blocks from the school to her apartment, the teacher has collected quite a fair amount of sweat on her forehead and the back of her neck today, and she doesn’t want to even mention the unfair amount of sweat between her shoulder blades and under her arms and breasts.
In no mood to sift through what usually consists of bills and spam, Martha unceremoniously tosses her mail onto the entryway table by the door, dropping her bag to the floor soon after and kicking her shoes off before hurrying to the kitchen.
With the icebox wide open, standing in front of the sink, she gulps down a glass of water, sighing blissfully at artificially cold air blowing onto her back. It’s a desperate little ritual she performs only during heatwaves, but thank God for how tiny her kitchen is—it takes nearly no time for the room to reach a soothing, cool temperature, and as soon as her resting heart rate returns to a more average beat, she leaves, pushing the icebox closed on her way out.
The living room is still hot, though; Martha sets her glass of water on the coffee table and heads to the window unit, cranking it as high as she can bear without thinking about her power bill. The machine comes to life with a whir, exhaling divinely cold air, much better than what comes out of the icebox. Martha promises herself she’ll turn it down in a little while, and then she’s off again, unwilling to lose steam before she can change out of her work clothes.
Her shirt gets tossed into the hamper in the adjoining bathroom along with her stockings once she manages to peel the damp fabric from her legs. After a moment’s consideration, her bra shares the same fate; Dobie exhales at the immediate relief, stretching her arms behind herself. Left in a camisole and her skirt, Martha means to return to the living room and sit down, drink her water and relax before she has to start grading exams.
Before she can, however, there is knocking at the front door. The rapid pattern is familiar, and as Martha gets up to answer the door, she calls out, “If you’re here to use my icebox, Theresa, you better have $20 for my electric bill.”
The epitome of a New York butch stands on her doormat, hands stuffed into a leather jacket only an idiot would wear in the summertime. Letting herself in, she pushes past Martha while already complaining, “What, did you sprint home or something? I tell you to wait for me after the final bell, and it’s like you decided to grow a pair of wheels.”
Theresa d’Angelo is the phys-ed teacher and her coworker at Harrison Junior High as well as the closest thing to a good friend Martha has in the city. That says likely something about the company she keeps, but she can’t really be angry.
Still Martha rolls her eyes, shutting the door. “Come right in, why don’t you.” The woman disappears into the kitchen. The sound of the icebox being thrown open, then the icebox door hitting something solid can be heard, followed by a long string of Italian swearing. Dobie goes after her, and she can bet ten to one she knows what happened. “Hit your head again, did you?” she asks innocently.
The butch is hunched in front of the little box, eyes squeezed tight, holding a bag of frozen peas to her forehead. The sight is immensely funny. Theresa gives her a dirty look, because there’s no keeping the amusement off her face.
“Y’know, you’d think I’d learn after the third time,” she mutters.
Martha shrugs. “Maybe the third time’s charm was a concussion.” Her friend chuckles, then winces, leaning further into the open cooler. Martha asks, “Want some water?”
“Yes, please,” Theresa sighs. “It’s hot as hell.” Martha hums in agreement, fetching a glass from the cupboard and filling it with a pitcher from the fridge. Her friend jokes, in the way she always does, “Good practice for us, though, hm?”
The redhead chortles though it’s a terrible joke to make.
She hands the cup to her friend. Theresa accepts it gratefully and throws it back like whiskey, dropping the cup back into Martha’s hand and tossing the frozen peas back into the icebox. She belches loudly, head turned away, as she says, “Thanks, Martha.”
Then she stands up straight and strides out of the kitchen, lighting a cigarette between her lips and dropping carelessly onto one of the chairs in the living room. Martha leaves the cup in the sink and pushes the icebox closed as she follows behind d’Angelo once again.
“Sometimes, I can see why we’re friends,” she says, leaning over the back of her couch. “Other times, I can’t see how we’re friends.”
That earns her a hearty chuckle from Theresa, who reaches over to tap her smoke on the ashtray in the center of the coffee table. Martha clears her throat and holds up two fingers—Theresa gets the message and offers the pack, leaning in to light the cigarette for her.
Blowing out a cloud of smoke, Martha frowns at the taste. “Trying a new brand?”
“These aren’t mine,” answers the phys ed teacher. “Someone in the teacher’s lounge took my pack and left theirs.”
Martha takes another drag and makes a face. “So what did you need?” she asks.
Theresa shrugs. “I just wanted to ask if you’re still going to Hilda and Juno’s tonight.”
Martha nods. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
“You did. But sometimes you change your mind.”
“You could have called to ask.”
“I could have,” Theresa agrees. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to spend time with my friend.” Her grin widens, and Martha suspects there is more that her friend isn’t telling. She raises one eyebrow at the butch, who immediately folds. “Alright, you got me. My AC’s busted.”
Martha sighs, but an endeared smile finds her face. “Well, I’d say stay as long as you like, but you’re going to anyway.” She reaches for the mail she discarded earlier and tears open an envelope.
Theresa stubs out her finished cigarette, then lights another. “Feel like grabbin’ a drink at Greta’s before the party? I love Juno, but that boy can’t make a whiskey sour to save his life.”
Martha looks up briefly. “Can’t. I need to read my mail, grade some exams, and take a shower.”
Theresa whines, as she often does when Martha is the rational one who sticks to schedules and does what needs to be done before doing whatever she likes. “Can’t you do all that later?”
“Tomorrow is the last day of school, you moron,” the redhead reminds, and she knows Theresa knows how important getting in final grades before the deadline is. A sneaky plan quickly enters her mind. “Finish my grading for me and I’ll go.”
“Where is it?”
Smirking, the redhead gestures with one hand. Theresa really must be set on her going. “My bag. The answer key is on top.”
Her friend gets up and carries Martha’s bag to the dining table, pulling out the stack of exams as Martha opens another envelope, another bill, and drops that one onto the couch too. She’ll hop into the shower once she’s read all her mail, Martha decides as she flicks her eyes over the next letter, which is not the typical yellow envelope she’s expecting. It’s white, pristine, not one fold or crease anywhere on it.
Despite how long it’s been since she’s seen that handwriting, it takes all but a second for Martha to recognize the swooping penmanship. There's no name above the return address in the top, left-hand corner, however Martha knows regardless. It can’t be, she thinks to herself—but in all actuality, why couldn’t it be? Her heart hammers, filling up her ears with its thrumming.
As she tears open the envelope and pulls out the letter, Dobie nearly stops breathing.
If there’s one thing Hilda Swanson knows, it’s how to throw a party. Her apartment is far nicer than Martha’s, with lots of space for the guests in attendance, and in the spirit of the evening, it’s been lavishly styled with red and gold, Hilda’s signature colors, decorations. There’s plenty to drink, plenty to smoke, and plenty to socialize, which would be all grand if Miss Dobie hadn’t quite completely lost her ability to hold a conversation with anyone. She’s feeling antsy, and a little guilty, having prematurely gone into her shell, and instead of making small talk, she lingers against a wall toward the back of the living room, watching.
In her pocket sits the letter, burning a hole through the fabric of her trousers. She wishes she’d left it at home, but worries if it escapes her person, it’ll disappear. She still can’t believe it exists.
Her hand slips into her pocket, finger poked by the edge of the envelope.
“Wanna tell me why you’re not enjoying yourself?”
Martha startles at the sound of her friend’s voice, jerking her hand down and whipping her head to Theresa leaning against the wall beside her. Out of everyone, she’s dressed the most casually, but nobody can fault the woman for sticking to what looks best on her—standard leather jacket and jeans complimenting her angular figure, long, black hair pulled into a low bun.
“I’m enjoying myself plenty,” she replies dismissively.
Theresa raises an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, you sure look it.”
“Whatever,” sighs Martha, sipping the vodka soda she’s been nursing for the last couple hours. She’s been resisting the urge to drink away her feelings, though it’s getting hard to keep her resolve up. At Greta’s, she only had one gin fizz—she now wishes she’d had three.
“Not whatever, tell me what’s bothering you,” Theresa all but demands. "You've been all gloomy since before we got here."
Martha closes her eyes, wanting absolutely nothing less than to talk about what’s bothering her. “I’m just tired, Theresa, that’s all. I’ve been grading all week.”
Her friend frowns. “Like I believe that,” she says. “If you were really tired, you wouldn’t have come. Something’s up, I can tell.”
Sometimes it still surprises Martha how quickly d’Angelo reads her—of course, Theresa is a good friend, but she’s never had very many friends, and certainly not ones who know her so well. Well, besides…
Martha quips flatly, “Can you also tell I don’t want to talk about it?”
“So there is something,” the Italian whispers, shifting closer to Martha. “Now you have to spill.”
“The only spilling I’ll be doing is my drink down your shirt if you don’t drop it.”
Theresa huffs. “It must be bad. You’re grouchier than usual.” Martha doesn’t reply to that, and at her silence, her friend nudges her. “You wanna get out of here?”
More than anything. “I might head home soon,” is all she answers with.
“Forget going home,” the butch says. “Let’s go back to Greta’s. I’ll buy you a stiff drink and you can tell me about your problems.”
It’s clear Theresa won’t let Martha keep her skeletons in the closet. Greta’s doesn’t sound… so bad; it would certainly be more enjoyable than staying here, idly hugging the walls, and maybe if she gets drunk enough, she’ll find some nerve to talk about the letter. Though, Martha doesn’t want to take Theresa away from a good party.
“I’d hate to make you leave early,” she says.
Theresa flicks her hand out, smiling. “Please, I’ve been dying to get outta here since my ex showed up with her new piece.”
“I saw them earlier,” Martha mutters, mostly to herself. “Kim certainly has a type.”
“Let’s not mention it,” Theresa hushes, taking the glass out of Martha’s hand and directing her to the door. “And don’t speak the devil’s name, you’ll summon her.”
Martha collects her purse. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye?”
Theresa blows a raspberry. “Let’s Irish Goodbye. Hilda and Juno are in the kitchen with the witch, and I don’t look good enough tonight to act like hot shit.”
“I thought she was the devil?”
“Fuck off, she can be both.”
Quickly and quietly, they leave Hilda’s apartment and take the subway back to Martha’s side of New York, where Greta’s is. Theresa does most of the talking on the way, telling her all about the rich, older woman she’s been seeing lately, and Martha nods along halfheartedly, as the letter begins to grow weighty in her pocket, demanding she stay aware of its presence.
It’s half past ten, and even for a weeknight, Greta’s is in full swing. Named after Garbo herself—though, really named for her tastes —it’s one of New York’s more unremarkable night spots. A small, scuzzy bar, tucked away in a dirty back alley on 11th avenue, there’s nothing particularly special about it—in fact, you could throw a stone in Greenwich Village and find a handful of establishments just like it, no problem. What comforts Martha about the city is that one is never too far from safe haven in the form of scuffed dance floors, broken barstools, and deviant company.
The air inside the bar is thick and warm, a product of the summer weather just beyond the exposed brick walls, smells of liquor, cigarettes, and heavy perfume, and causes every patron to perspire, regardless of dress or lack thereof. The lights are kept dim, should identities need protecting, and the back doors are kept unlocked, should hasty exits need to be made. Dozens of people crowd the dance floor, and their complete disregard for the supposed sin that takes place between the bodies of women unabashedly coupled with other women is always thrilling to observe.
By the time they make it, Theresa has run out of things to say apparently. They take two seats at the bar, and as Martha drops her purse onto the counter, her friend cuts to the chase.
“Time to start spilling, Dobie,” she says, flagging down the bartender, Al. “Two scotch on the rocks, Al.” Martha withholds a grimace at the dark choice, but doesn’t say anything. Theresa glances at her. “Go on, tell me what’s on your mind.”
Sighing, Martha rubs her forehead. “I can’t even have a few minutes before you hound me?” d’Angelo simply shrugs at her, motioning expectantly. “Where to begin…” she mutters. The letter makes the skin underneath her pant leg vibrate, so she reaches into her pocket and takes it out, passing it to Theresa without a word. Her friend eyes her quizzically before unfolding the paper and reading quickly. It’s a short letter, so it doesn’t take more than a minute.
When she’s finished it, she takes out a pack of cigarettes, placing one in her mouth as she says, “I feel like I’m missing something.” Martha steals a cig from the pack and lights it with the match Theresa passes to her. “Who sent this?”
Exhaling smoke, Martha closes her eyes. “A—” whatever she means to say gets caught in her throat. She’s at a loss trying to find something that would do justice to the sender; to that smile and those eyes that Martha could pick out in a crowd of thousands, to that laughter that now plays in her head, to that funny, familiar way her stomach still fills up with butterflies and dread just thinking about that woman—to the end of it all, the grief and the guilt and the sheer pain that linger on.
The best she can do is mutter, “An old friend;” calling her that tastes bitter. Friend.
Martha’s drink arrives in front of her, and Martha gives Al a short smile as she ashes her cigarette and brings it back to her mouth. She hates the taste of scotch, hates Theresa briefly for ordering it, and hates herself for a multitude of reasons. Friend . It’s both the most accurate word she can come up with as well as the least. It’s the truth—technically—but it’s not the whole truth, is it?
Her heart pounds in her chest, a rhythm she’s tried so hard to run away. Regardless, it beats.
“ An old friend ,” Theresa repeats before taking a sip of her scotch, and Martha actively ignores the way in which she says those words. Like she gets it. She can’t already. Can she? “How long have you known each other?”
Dobie isn’t sure how to answer that because it’s complicated. There are… technicalities to all of it. Her face must tell d’Angelo something.
“Gotta be a long time,” says the butch. She holds up the rectangular slip of paper. “You don’t send a plane ticket to just anybody.”
Martha closes her eyes. “Fifteen years,” she answers.
“How many of those have been on speaking terms?”
“Ten.”
“So it’s been five years.”
The scotch burns down her throat as she drinks it, but it gives her a bite. “Is Gordon planning to make you the new math teacher at Harrison? I’ll be out of a job with competition like this.”
“Gimme a break,” Theresa gripes, knocking back the rest of her drink. “I’m just trying to talk to you. You're such a goddamn closed-book sometimes.”
It’s painfully honest; her personal history is something she avoids in daily life, for her own sake as well as others. Everybody has baggage—nobody needs anymore, least of all hers. Any and all confidence from the alcohol fades quickly, like a hole in a balloon, and Martha deflates.
“It’s hard to talk about,” she manages to say.
Theresa gestures to Al for another drink, looking a little sorry. “Did something happen between you two?”
“A lot happened between us.”
“I see.”
Martha flushes bright red, snapping her head in d’Angelo’s direction when she hears that tone. From one letter alone, she’s embarrassed such an implication could be so easily garnered. She has about a million defenses on her tongue, all ready to be spat out, but it dawns on Martha very suddenly—what’s the point? This isn’t a courtroom. There’s no judge presiding over her head or her livelihood. It’s her friend sitting with her at a gay bar, not the entire population of Lancet. Still, old dogs don’t forget old commands that quickly.
“It’s not how you’re thinking.” She takes a drag, lowering her gaze and admitting, “We never did anything. She isn’t even….”
“Okay.” Her friend’s tone is even, that New York accent strong. She folds the ticket back with the letter and holds it out to Martha. “Well, what’re you thinkin’?” The woman doesn’t beat around the bush, never has, and her forwardness is something Martha has always admired.
However, at a time when she’s feeling so vulnerable, so raw, Miss Dobie would appreciate a little tact.
“I don’t know.” She has a large sip of her scotch and immediately regrets doing that. Taking the papers from Theresa, Martha quickly tucks it into her purse and purposefully keeps her eyes off it. “It’s been… years. I…” There’s more to the story, but right now, Miss Dobie doesn’t want to start pulling on that loose thread. She’ll fall apart like a knitted sweater in the dryer if she tries.
“D’you wanna see her?”
No.
“I—”
Yes.
Martha stares at the smoke coming off the end of her cigarette, repeating, “I don’t know.” She frowns. “What happened between us– the last time she called me–” Her sentences die before they can make any kind of sense of the grief burning a hole in her chest. The pain feels so physical—if it gets worse, Martha might need a doctor; or a psychoanalyst; or both. “She shouldn’t want to see me.”
“Clearly she does though,” Theresa counters firmly, stubbing out her cigarette and drinking her scotch. “She wouldn’t’ve done all this if she didn’t.”
“I don’t know why she’d want to though.” Martha shakes her head. “She shouldn’t.”
Not after all Martha’s done, all she’s said. It took damn near everything she had to burn that bridge, to save her friend. And she’d done it because no matter how devastated it left her, it had been for the best. Hadn’t it?
She’s never asked herself that question. How can she consider it—if it wasn’t for the best, what was it for?
Her face scrunches up, finding it hard to breathe as good memories float up to the surface, and she’s overcome suddenly by how much she misses her best friend. It’s been so long since she’s let herself think about Karen, and now all she wants is to see her, hear her voice, something.
Karen. Martha sighs, because she hasn’t let herself even think that name in all this time.
It sort of emboldens her. She sits up straight. What if she goes? Logistically, it could work. Tomorrow is Friday; summer vacation starts tomorrow, and the plane leaves on Monday—Martha got a passport last November to join a few friends on a springtime trip to Niagara Falls. Her break is three months long, plenty of time to go and come back before the next term. She even has enough money to pay three months’ rent in advance before she goes, just in case, though she very much doubts she’d stay for that long. Plus, she’s always wanted the chance to go abroad.
Martha looks up at the ceiling, because maybe the scotch is affecting her, or maybe somehow, the universe aligned itself precisely for this opportunity to arise. It’s almost a sign to her, that Karen Wright sent this letter and this ticket at the perfect time.
Cardin. Karen Cardin.
Remembering that feels like a knife through her lung. She’s getting ahead of herself. Plummeting back down to earth, she hears her friend ask:
“I can see you’re lost in thought right now, but are you gonna finish your scotch?”
Martha lowers her gaze to the counter top and slides it over to her. “It’s yours.”
Theresa accepts the drink gladly and waves at Al. “A gin and tonic for her, Al?”
“Who’s buying these drinks?” Martha asks.
“Not me, an’ not you,” Theresa grins cheekily, reaching into her back pocket. Grabbing for her wallet, she holds out a crisp ten dollar bill to Martha.
“Is that from…?”
“Bunny,” Theresa answers. “Isn’t she a sweetheart?”
Martha gratefully drinks from her gin and tonic the second Al puts it down. “What did you do for that, clean her pool?” Her own joke makes her laugh into the glass, earning a pointed look from her friend.
“Ha ha,” huffs d’Angelo. “Just keep laughin’ and drinkin’, Dobie, and you won’t see a dime.”
Her laughter, however brief, makes Martha feel lighter than when they got to Greta’s. A little more sincerely, she says, “Tell Bunny she’s a saint, from me.”
Theresa shrugs loosely, lighting another smoke. “Tell her yourself. I wanna bring her round sometime,” she says, offering another cigarette to Martha. As she takes it, Theresa continues. “So, you gonna tell me what happened between you and… Karen, was it?”
Thinking her name in her head and hearing it said aloud are two very different things, Martha realizes very suddenly. The hand holding her new drink tightens its grasp in response to both her friend’s bluntness and the sudden recall of what happened between them .
“Maybe– maybe I should tell somebody, I just–” she tries, and her friend, while searching her pockets for matches, perks up slightly beside her, obviously interested in the chance to peel back one of Martha’s layers. She’s so damn guarded, it’s a wonder she has any friends at all. “I–” Her voice grows thick, and she blinks, as the tears start to well. There’s a jumble of words in her throat, but she just can’t say them yet; her insides eat away at themselves, and Martha must look as bad as she feels because Theresa backs off the second she glances over to pass a light.
“Hey, no need to go crying on me,” says the butch quickly, “we’ll talk about somethin’ else, alright?”
“I’m sorry,” Martha breathes, squeezing her eyes and letting Theresa light her cig. She exhales, lowering her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, I should be sorry,” Theresa replies casually, patting her back. “I’m a jackass. I pushed you too hard. Let’s drop it.”
“Okay,” the redhead relents, silently grateful as she wipes the beginnings of tears and shoves the desire to cry as far down as she possibly can. “What do you want to talk about?”
Theresa shrugs, before suggesting, “Mind if I complain about Kim’s new girlfriend?”
That makes Martha laugh. “Sure,” she says, swallowing a large gulp of gin, giving in to the urge to be much less sober. Before Theresa can get started, however, someone behind them speaks.
“So here we find the two party goers who seem to have forgotten all their etiquette.”
Quickly, both Theresa and Martha turn their heads over their shoulders to see Hilda Swanson and her partner Juno standing there.
“Did you two really ditch the party early to come to Greta’s?” asks Juno incredulously, arms folded over his chest.
Martha begins to reply, but Theresa is quicker than her. “Did you ditch your own party just to come find us?”
“Of course we did,” answers Hilda, “I didn’t get the chance to talk to Martha.”
“I’m sorry, Hilda,” Martha says, feeling poorly then. “I wasn’t feeling well, but Theresa wanted to—“
“Sure blame it all on me,” Theresa butts in.
Martha looks at her. “Didn’t I say I wanted to go home?”
“You said you might go home—“
“Whatever the reason, you’ll both get my thanks,” Juno interrupts. “We were looking for an excuse to leave, which is hard to find when it’s your apartment.”
“You wanted to leave?” Martha questions.
“Are you kidding me?” laughs Hilda. “I don’t know who told the queers of New York about my soirée, but someone must have because I don’t even know half the people who showed up tonight.”
“And you left them alone in your apartment?” asks Theresa.
“Things weren't too rowdy when we left,” Juno defends.
Theresa ducks her face behind her drink, snickering. “Good luck with the clean up tomorrow.”
“Whatever,” Juno mutters, rolling his eyes. “I phoned Dana and told her to meet us here after her gig.”
“Dana’s in town? That rat, she hasn’t called me!” Theresa complains, slapping the bar counter. Martha laughs suddenly at how intense her friend is, how harsh she is considering how close Theresa d’Angelo and Dana Martinelli actually are. “The second I see that dyke, I’m givin’ her an earful.”
“Hilda, tell me about your trip to Los Angeles, I did mean to ask about it,” Martha says, talking over Theresa’s pissy grumbling.
Quickly, the friends settle into banter as they settle into seats, and Martha allows herself to be pulled in. Unlike before, she talks willingly—to Hilda about L.A., to Juno about his latest photo shoot, to Dana about her gig when she shows. Among present company, her worries are placed on hold, just for the time being. She decidedly doesn’t discuss herself, but nobody is sober enough to notice. Eventually, everyone, Martha included, tells Theresa to shut up about Bunny, and the butch’s kicked puppy dog expression causes laughter to break out.
Surrounded by friends, Miss Dobie can see clearly how much she’s changed in the last five years. As a child; as a teen; Christ, well into her 20s, Martha was a terribly awkward and antisocial thing. Somehow stunted in comparison to her peers, she remembers feeling so inferior. Thinking back on it now while sitting on barstools between those who grew up the same, it’s obvious how much of that was just repression, never quite knowing who or what she really was, and never feeling safe enough to make friends with anyone—besides Karen.
She’s no social butterfly in her 30s, but she’s made a few friends, people alike to her in aspects that make it easier to lower the walls she’s built up; Martha thinks it’s more poetic to phrase that way, instead of calling her social circle what it is: a bunch of homosexuals.
Dimly, she wonders what Karen would think of her now.
There really is no denying it anymore. She’s a lesbian, and not so, so ashamed to admit that to the right people, but she cannot help wondering how that might make her old friend feel. Karen knows—or should know—that part of Martha, but what has she done with that information? Has she asked Martha to Paris in spite of it, or has she considered it?
When Hilda buys the next round, Miss Dobie sips her gin and doesn't know what to think.
Martha,
I know it’s been some time since we last spoke, and I can imagine you must be surprised to hear from me, though I am not entirely surprised to find myself writing to you. I hope this letter finds you well, or at all, as I don’t know if this is still your address.
Truthfully I’m not sure how to put this, so I’ll just be outright: I’d like to see you. Soon.
I know how out of the blue this may seem, but I’ve been thinking of you so much recently. I miss our friendship. I miss your company. Honestly, Martha, I think I just miss you. I worry I’m going out on a limb by thinking you might miss me too, but it’s a risk I’ll take. You’re too mule-headed to reach out first, we both know that, though I mean it with affection. I’ll be the one to do it if I have to.
There's an airplane ticket inside the envelope, and the flight leaves for Paris—where I live—at 1PM on the 30th of May. Don’t fret about money, but do consider coming. Even if you don’t stay for very long, nothing would make me happier. There are things we’ll need to talk about, but all that can happen w̶h̶e̶n̶ if you decide to come.
If you do want to see me, I hope you’ll find yourself in seat 15A on the 30th. And if you don’t, please return the ticket at the very least.
Yours,
Karen Wright