Dear David,
Much as I adore you, we have to stop sleeping together.
I'm trashed. My boss is losing patience with my rapidly declining competence. I can barely function. Just this morning I put seven scoops of Folgers in his coffee pot, typed, "Please sing below," on legal correspondence, and announced that I was meeting my daughter at Tanners for snake night.
Each day I tell myself I'll break it off, but come bedtime, I can not resist you. I set the alarm and leave the lamp on, as I've already spied you lying there waiting for me, my patient lover under green cover, whispering, "Let's get Naked" to me, but I won't, as I haven't finished Me Talk Pretty yet.
I succumb, thinking just for a little while...I'll barely touch you...just indulge for a few minutes...and dammit I'm done for again.
Hours later, spent, I shove you to your side of the bed and turn out the light. It's almost time to go back to the office.
I haven't been this exhausted since I slept with Alexander McCall Smith and his lady detective. The end is near, David.
Until I get Naked.
Until I get Naked.
Yours,
Deb
