Okay. I was no friend to you
in those years, the years
before you left. I kept you
on your toes, though. In
his memoir, Tobias Wolff
says: ‘Isn’t there, in the very
act of confession, an obscene
self-congratulation for
the virtue required to see
your mistake and own up…?’
I imagine a pause and a cough.
The audience do not know
where to put their feet. The water’s
rising. Perhaps they raise their hands,
or go out back for a smoke. I want
to call you, but know you may hang up.