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Letters from the Unsuspecting

My dear,

But for damning anything in a less presumptuous manner, and so as to not sputter ingraciously any remark as contemptuously as those marked by sheer familiarity, neither am I, in actual fact, so bold as to be right out with it. As in the space of our extended acquaintanceship, some several years marked by a certain remote and measured intimacy, in such time we have managed to maintain a maddeningly respectful and even evocative distance from one another which may be likely attributed to our respective, and vigorously divergent, upbringings.

It is nothing less than mild fear, and an enjoyment of the occasional veering of our banter and exchange into rather more saucy territory, that has kept me from bridging what some might describe as an obvious charge between us, what others might rightfully dismiss as scarcely more than prologue. I deny and finally refuse accordance with such a contrived structure; in fact it is contrivance itself that I have sworn off and for whose avoidance I will have made seemingly gratuitous and laborious detours or concessions.

It is precisely because I sense that our vague, brimming closeness might be bearing - somewhat naturally or inherently, or even inevitably, gasp - in that direction that I deign even to discuss such things in similarly calculable banality, or in the calculated terms which one might, at a safely delayed moment, predict a meteorological event. At long last, though I suspect you have scarcely noted the protracted duration, what I am proposing is nothing short (or long!) of an interlude, a term which suggests far more bourgeois parameters than in fact have inspired me to rupture the silence that has surrounded particular subjects, swirling inevitably as they do, able as they are to evade distinction or ultimately, resolution. Oh, shall I simply have grabbed and pulled you close, wordlessly?

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