A Reply to the Obtrusive Narrator

Yesterday I left a marginalia of fingerprints rendered in grease. Consider them a whorled map of my heart, for I was so drawn up in your character’s shame that I lost track of the crumpled napkin on my lap. Let’s, for a moment, imagine that we’re at the dinner party on page 312, and that I have raised my hand to my lips to be sure that no one overhears my earnest confession. After I speak, I’ll smile and look down, wringing the fine linen napkin in my lap. Forgive my intrusion. Take my confidence for what it is, reaching, pregnant with longing.