Dear R
~
All right then. If we are to pretend that nothing has changed between us, I suppose I should begin by addressing the more pressing matter at hand: Horatio the Judgmental Gossip Bird.
I must say, I’m relieved to know that he has taken up residence near your window.
Someone needs to keep watch over your dignity, and since you’ve clearly abandoned that responsibility yourself, the task has fallen to our feathered friend.
Please give him my regards and assure him that I, too, find your lack of self-respect deeply concerning.
(Though between us, I laugh-sobbed when your letter arrived. Horatio would have been most unimpressed.)
Now, you’ll be insufferably pleased to know that I attempted your suggestion about asking whether plants have opinions about us. I committed fully to the strategy—delivered it with complete seriousness to a gentleman during what was meant to be a perfectly ordinary garden conversation.
Not only did it work, but it was perhaps TOO effective! I completely scared off the gentleman I was talking to, who quite literally fled from my presence!
It was somewhat of a relief to be left alone, I have to admit.
Though perhaps also a little … humiliating?
Did he really have to depart my presence with such alarming speed?
One moment we were discussing roses (elderly chaperones and all), and the next he’d remembered somewhere urgent he needed to be.
I’ve never seen anyone disappear with such haste.
So thank you, R, for that spectacularly successful bit of social advice. I am now quite certain that at least one person in the realm believes I am utterly mad.
Your friend who is apparently very good at frightening people,
L
Dearest L,
I’ve just had the most undignified fit of laughter at your story. Horatio, naturally, observed the scene with grave disapproval. (I’m beginning to think he may be related to your elderly ever-blooming roses.) I must, however, take issue with your interpretation of events.
This gentleman—whoever he is—either possesses exceptionally poor taste, monumentally poor judgment, or something else entirely unrelated occurred that had nothing whatsoever to do with you or your perfectly reasonable question about plants.
I have an alternative theory that might spare your ego (and mine, since I suggested the strategy). What if he wasn’t fleeing from your question at all? What if, at that precise moment, he was stung by a spite gnat?
These are minuscule creatures, barely visible to the naked eye, known for their vindictive nature and poor timing.
A spite gnat sting causes an immediate and overwhelming compulsion to flee the area while simultaneously developing an irrational fear of whatever one was looking at when stung.
The effects last approximately three hours, during which the victim experiences an inexplicable craving for fermented acorn paste.
So you see, it likely had nothing to do with your brilliant conversational gambit and everything to do with aggressive insects with personality disorders.
The gentleman is probably sitting somewhere right now, confused about why he suddenly fled, embarrassed by his behavior, and wondering why he can’t stop thinking about fermented acorn paste.
I maintain that my strategy was flawless. The spite gnat was simply jealous of your wit.
Furthermore, the fact that you laugh-sobbed (a term which, I confess, is new to me but conveys a most exquisite degree of emotional chaos) when my letter arrived has made my day. Possibly my entire month. Horatio is once again scandalized. I regret nothing.
Incorrigibly yours,
R
P.S. I’ve been wondering, L … do you have the courage to play a game with me? I won’t say what it is yet. Mystery is half the fun. You may, of course, decline … though I’ll take that as an admission that you frighten easily.
Dear R,
A spite gnat? REALLY? That is the most absurd thing you’ve ever written to me, and that’s saying something considering you once devoted an entire letter to the rumored political ambitions of gossip birds.
Though I must admit, the image of that poor gentleman sitting somewhere, inexplicably craving fermented acorn paste, does bring me considerable comfort. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it wasn’t my catastrophically awkward question after all, but rather a vindictive insect with unfortunate timing.
(You absolutely made up spite gnats. But I’m choosing to believe in them anyway because the alternative is too mortifying.)
As for your game … I should tell you no. I’m not the competitive one in my family. That honor belongs to two of my older siblings who turn EVERYTHING into a contest. I prefer to observe from a safe distance where no one expects me to participate, let alone excel.
I’m also terribly suspicious of games proposed by people who have demonstrated a concerning fondness for vegetable-related chaos. What exactly are you planning?
Though I suppose … how frightening can a game conducted entirely through letters actually be? It is not as if you can make me do anything truly mortifying. The worst that could happen is I’d have to write something embarrassing, and I’ve already done that countless times in our correspondence.
So yes. Fine. I’ll play your mysterious game. But only because I refuse to give you the satisfaction of thinking I frighten easily.
(I do frighten easily. But you do not need to know that.)
Cautiously intrigued,
L