My Dearest Maribel,
The nights in this office are lonely without you. I sit in this tight, wooden, box, shoved up against other jackets just like me. Jackets who are lonely, scared, missing their pants partners just like I am. Some guys get to talking—about where they’re from, what they are going to do once they get out of here. I never was one for talking. I just stare at your photo and the note you left in my pocket. That note that says this is a two-piece item that cannot be sold separately lets me know we were meant to be together. We were sold together but stored separately. It keeps me up nights.
