Dear Wigleaf,

Someone forgot they couldn't fly, so my train's been stuck for two hours while we wait for the cops to sort it out. I'm writing this from the cramped bathroom where a man in aviators that looked like someone I might've known in a past life just pissed half a beer on the floor. Last night, we went to a rooftop garden after work, slugged overpriced cocktails, and watched the sun spill boysenberry light over the single-syllable river that splits the city like a walnut. Your sister chain-smoked Gauloises and said you haven't called in a while, her dark nail polish chipped only on her right middle finger. Do you remember how your dad tried to teach us all about wormholes while strawberries stained our fingers red, sweetened cream on my tongue? I hope you haven't stumbled into one.

Let me know that you're still breathing, and if you want to split a sundae when the sun finally comes back from its furlough.

Still yours,

Thora