The letter, however brief and simple, took her breath away. She clutched it to her chest while looking out at the beach. The penner: Edward, sweet cute next door neighbor of daddy wannabe Keith B., now far removed and roaming around the coastline of Africa last she heard. Her: Amazon. Here. “My Dear Valentine,” it started. “I love you with all my heart.” it ended. No middle, but centered through and through with a beating, pulsing passion. For a change. “I *love* it!” she called to her wannabe substitute lover. She’ll let him, she knew. But she has to tell Arthur first. Only in the novel, of course. She’ll write it all out just before it happens in reality. Or (this) *ir*reality. Nothing is real here. Right?
“Funny that you’re 6 foot 5, Edward,” she said afterwards. “Just like my Arthur.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” he requested, and then kept on reading what was directly in front of his nose.