[*Anya*]

Susan reflected deeply on her life, stretching back as far as infancy, though everyone told her that she could not possibly remember back that far but she knew that she could and that everyone else was wrong about that and she laughed-a sound somewhere between a phlegm-filled, 30-year smoker and that of the organ-grinder that had mysteriously appeared on her street last week, complete with a monkey in a jaunty red-satin hat, wearing jodhpurs with bright orange suspenders, that matched her coat and she reflected on her life and thought that was good, very good, the best it ever had been; excellent as a matter of fact.

She thoughtfully stared out of the dual-paned windows that she had installed last winter to keep out the cold and to lower her heating bill, watching the white crystals of frost cling to the edges of the panes and the little rivulets of water that almost appeared the same as the diamond-sparkling jewels of the tears she had shed the other day, as she buttoned up her orange, mohair coat, that looked something like Fluffy, her long-deceased cat that she had loved so much and had been crying over and she wondered if she had gotten the coat because it did remind her of all of those nights that Fluffy cuddled her in her down-filled bed, complete with down-filled duvet, down pillows and down feather bed, when she was missing her long-lost lover that used to cuddle her in bed before she was replaced by Fluffy but she reasoned, there was nothing she could do about either of them and she could always sleep with her coat, if she got really lonely.

She picked up her prized Bic pen and began to chew on the well-chewed end, as she usually did when thinking hard about something-which was her custom but also because thinking was difficult for her but she did her very best and with a deeply furrowed brow, she began to pen her missive. She kept her coat on because it comforted her and helped her to think better.