Dear Wigleaf,

I'm looking at the postcard Jack sent from Vegas. I don't know him or the recipient; I got this at a secondhand shop. I know he is the kind of man who goes to Vegas and only writes that his hotel is nice, and he needs to lose weight before his back surgery in the spring. I could speculate that Jack is just censoring himself, creating the most unremarkable persona to hide his debauchery. Maybe the back surgery is a lie. Or this could be code.

Ultimately, I'm most fascinated by the easiest answer: Jack is dreadfully boring. This is where I'm drawn in by a dullness I sometimes envy. My overabundance of curiosity regularly leads me to learn about murderers, scammers, impostors, and smugglers. I've stayed in conversations and not-so-nice hotel rooms with sketchy people longer than recommended because I want to know what's out there. I don't envy that. But I see why someone craves lust and power, and I can't imagine writing, much less sending, a postcard like Jack's.

Me? I would invent a persona. I would write in code. In the right circumstances, I would probably lie about back surgery. But this postcard? That's not a place I'd go.

Love,
Erin