December 4

To Whom It May Concern, 

The emissary you sent? That masked priest with the shifty eyes? Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that I made him. 

Was he hurrying in the stairwell because he was rushing off to administer The Last Rites to an expiring patient or perhaps to hear someone's final confession? Or was he trying to put some distance between himself and the briefcase bomb he left outside my office door several floors above?

Do you see what I'm getting at? 

You can't ever be certain when it comes to the motivations of others. It's nice to think people are just going about doing their assigned work and not something sinister. It's nice, but it's probably not true. Around here, I will henceforth assume there's a bomb in that briefcase.

Later, I dined in Worcester. A small group of people were talking about something dull at the top of their voices heavily accented in the local dialect. That sound, for me, is a dagger wrapped in 40- grit sandpaper slowly thrust into my ear. That complaining tone. The harshness. God bless 'em. 

I returned alone to an empty house that was free of improvised munitions, spies, assassins, unhappy women, and was glad for the silence. 

I'm not wrong to avoid you.

Sincerely,