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note on stationery that matched the envelope
written in a small, precise hand and green ink:
    Dear Peter,
    I am taking the liberty of writing you after
considerable thought and at the risk of reopening
wounds that are now, I hope, beginning to heal. I
found this letter folded in the back of a book on Lisa's
nightstand. I have been looking at it and reading it
over for a couple weeks now. I've almost destroyed it
several times, both because of its intimate nature and
because Lisa had not sent it, and I can't be sure that
she intended to, but I can't bring myself to do so. It
is so full of her, of her energy and wit and intensity,
and we have so little of her left. At the same time, it is
not mine, and I feel like an eavesdropper reading it.
It is yours, and so I found your address in the guest
registry from the funeral and am sending it to you
to do with as you wish. I hope you don't mind.
    Yours, Maud Kim Nho
    Then there was a letter in bigger, bolder, black handwriting
on typing paper:
    P,
    It is just dawn and I am just awake and you are on
my mind. Isn't that an old song? Funny how we always
talk in lyrics, you and I: all you need is love, what's
love got to do with it, many a tear has to fall. I love that
about you, your layers upon layers, your allusions, your
asides. A conversation with you needs footnotes and
a reader's guide. But then I love so much about you.
I am quite madly in love with you if you don't mind
my choice of words; see, now you have me doing it.
    And why shouldn't we talk in lyrics? We are so
musical, my love. We are all about music, rhythm, beat,
and syncopation. We are a song, you and I. The first
time we did our dance moving together in the dark, it
wasn't sex, it wasn't fucking. It was breathing together,
it was swaying, it was the two of us becoming a third
thing for a moment, moments. I don't remember
what happened to my clothes. I don't remember you
touching me with your hands, not in the usual places,
just my hair and upper arms and lightly on my hips.
And then I realized you were inside me, but it was
hardly the point, it was almost incidental, it was the
way I always thought it should be (another song?).
You can say that our little friend helped, but I don't
think very much; what happened was inevitable.
    That is how I feel about us, my darling. We are
inevitable. We are inexorable. We are a juggernaut. I am
very sad that we can not see each over Thanksgiving, but
we shall, as always, have Tuesday, and then while we are
apart, you will have this surprise missive to remind you
of me. Besides, this thing we have is so strong that I don't
need to see you. I am fine. I am happy, safe and secure in
the warmth of our love though we are far apart and long
away from each other. I love you deeply and eternally.
    L
    "Shit," I thought standing there, my hand unsteady by
the time I had finished reading, looking about for fear someone
would come along and catch me. "What do I do with
this damn thing?" I thought. "Why did I have to read this?"
I thought. "Why couldn't someone feel this way about me?"
I thought. For the first time in almost three years, I badly
wanted a cigarette.

3
. . .
TRAVEL WRITING
DATELINE: CUERNAVACA,
MEXICO
by Pete Ferry
    On the ninth day of their march, (Cortes and his)
troops arrived before the strong city of . . . Cuernavaca.
It was . . . the most considerable place for
wealth and population in this part of the country
. . . For, though the place stood at an elevation
of between five and six thousand feet, it had a
southern exposure so sheltered by the mountain
barrier on the north that its climate was . . . soft
and genial.
    —W. H. Prescott, The Conquest of Mexico
    H ERNANDO CORTÉS , Helen Hayes, and I were attracted
to Cuernavaca by the same Chamber of Commerce
sales pitch; the place has a damn near perfect climate.
We all first went there on R and R. Señor Cortés was taking
a break during his conquest of the Aztec Empire. Miss Hayes
had just been crowned queen of the New