APRIL 2016

LOS ANGELES

A man sits on a patio, wrapped in a blanket and staring out to sea. It is cold in California this time of year, though much better than in New York, which is why he winters on this coast. He is old enough to do what he wants. Let someone else worry about logistics at the office, who’s billing what hours, and the clients they should woo. He’s sworn a hundred times he’ll retire. Soon. Very soon.

His secretary comes outside. She wears a blue suit, and blue heels but in a different shade.

“Any luck?” he asks.

She frowns and extends the sealed envelope his way.

“It’s the best I could do,” she says.

The man turns the letter over in his hand, then tosses it onto a nearby table. He should probably ask her to type the address, as the woman’s penmanship resembles that of a teenage girl. If teens wrote things by hand anymore. Oh, who cares. The destination is legible. Good enough.

“It’s fine,” he says, and leans into his chaise, eyes closed. “Thank you.”

The secretary waits for further direction as the envelope flutters in the breeze. Before he meanders of into sleep, she has to ask.

“Do you think it’s true?” she says.

At first, he doesn’t answer. She assumes he’s fallen asleep but, really, he’s taking his time.

“We first met,” he says, causing her to jump, “fifty years ago.”

He opens one eye, and then the other.

“And over the decades she said many things.”

He chuckles through his nose.

“Many things,” he repeats. “Outrageous claims were made, some of which would make international news. But as to whether I believe it? I’ve never been able to decide. Not that my opinion matters. The only thing we can do is send the letter and wait for a response.”