Dear Blonde Freddy’s Fan at the n+1 #9 Launch Party:
I was sporting an olive green jacket and the shaved-head/bushy-beard combo that one sees a little too often on the L train.
You were wearing a cool striped (geometric-patterned?) skirt and maybe a greyish hoodie, and you approached me and my Danish novelist friend to find out what was in my flask (note to the good folks at n+1: we also patronized the bar!). We got to chatting, and you invited us out with you to commemorate the last night of Freddy’s. It was packed and festive there, though an aging busker belting odes in the back room drove us outside, where a guy with magic weed smoked us up. I mean, he really smoked us up, with the result—I’m hoping this is why—that I mis-transcribed your number in the wee small hours of the morning.
All I know is your first name and where you went to school and that you’re now doing a grad program in lit somewhere in the city. We discussed the novella versus the short story, and Melville. It’s all a little hazy, I admit, but I’d hate for you to fade back into the undifferentiated mass of Eight Million Stories. Hope you see this and get in touch.