I didn’t know you would be here, the famous author said when I arrived at the book party. Before he left he put his arm around me for a moment, and I ran my hand down his back like an idiot.

Did you get your Porsche? I asked disdainfully, to punish him for my unmanageable feeling. He’d just received an enormous book advance and wanted to buy himself a vintage 911.

Strong, vibrating shame. I wanted to hit him with a car. I wanted to sit next to him at a dinner that would never happen, his fingers tickling the skin under my knee.

I wrote him the next morning at 7:42 a.m. with clear purpose. I’m sorry I teased you about your Porsche. Please don’t hate me.

Then all I had to do was accept the fact that he wouldn’t write back, and then discreetly masturbate about it for ten years.

But three hours later he wrote back. I didn’t realize you were teasing me until now, so just starting hating you this very minute. Plus, I may get a Jaguar instead and you will want a ride at some point.