Continued, The Correspondent
Dear Theodore,
Thank you for the Yule cake. When I was married I used to buy Daan kitchen items—good knives, a garlic press, a Bundt pan—for Christmas, and it was a joke we had, that when we were in retirement, he could take up cooking and I could at last devote my life and attentions to reading and correspondence and we would both live out our days in euphoria.
Of course, Daan didn’t care a thing for being in the kitchen, and as it turns out I will not have much more time for reading or correspondence.
You know I have trouble with my eyes, but I have not told you that I have a condition that is greedily circling, ready to render me blind.
I have known about it for some time. As it is now, lately when I wake up it takes such a long time before my eyes can come into focus, and there is the odd day when I can’t see out of one or both eyes at all.
I did want to address another matter directly, and that is I have the sense your manner toward me grew cold when I mentioned the upcoming visit from Mick Watts.
I’ll pop the head off the dandelion stem right here in no uncertain terms. At seventy-eight years old I have no intention of ever remarrying and I assure you I will conduct my life as I see fit, and if that means I pass some of my days with one man and other days with someone else, that is my choice to make.
If it troubles you, then I suggest you reverse and go find somewhere else to park yourself.
Mick Watts is a friend of mine, and our lives share a substantial quantity of overlap.
Mick is funny and clever, and we have a good time together.
I want nothing to do with it if you continue to conduct yourself in a snit.
Sybil