My friend surprises me. “You here?”
“Of course,” she says, “I’ve been looking for you. J is here too.”
At once I’m annoyed. “Why is he here?”
“He says he has all of your letters, and he wants to give them back.”
“What letters? I never wrote to him.”
“Nonetheless, he wants to give them back.”
When I wake up, I’m not sure what annoys me more: J’s false claim that I wrote to him, or the fact that I’ll have to take possession of these letters, carry them away in my small suitcase, file them among my papers at home, already too voluminous.