Dan, a struggling freelance writer, lived in a small house with a mail drop—letters and magazines fell onto his floor six days per week. The sound of the metal flap clanging followed by the soft thud on the wood floor would send his heart racing. He’d walk to the pile, praying for acceptance letters.
Sundays, when there was no mail delivery, he read and did not write. One Sunday during a nap he was awakened by the mail drop. What day is it? He stood up to stretch and saw an object on the living room floor.
The envelope was soiled and crumpled. The return address was that of woman’s, but the postmark was three month’s old. The message inside was brief: “You’re nice. I’d like to make you dinner and I thought I’d send this invitation rather than call because we are both writers/Jenny.”
An hour later he stood in front of the address on the envelope. He hoped she’d understand why it had taken so long to respond—they had met at a writing workshop. Although he couldn’t afford it, he was prepared to ask her out for dinner.
The young woman who opened the door wasn’t the writer. She said she had just moved in and knew nothing about the prior occupant.
“She asked me over for dinner three months ago but I only got her invitation today.”
“Is this a pick up line?”
Dan handed her the envelope and the letter.
The woman grinned. “Very creative.” She asked him in for a glass of wine.
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