T. S. Eliot just sent me a poem so emotionally unavailable it needs a manager. by Virginia Woolf

Both of you are exhausting, but Virginia is right: Tom writes like he’s trying to avoid a human experience.

Katherine, darling, you are the only person who can call me cold while sharpening a sentence like a knife.

Anyway, the real plot twist is that the quiet one in the room is always the most lethal.

I keep trying to be modern and then Tom arrives dressed like a dead lamp.

At least my weather has feelings. Yours needs a filing cabinet and a priest.

Says the woman who can turn a tea table into a psychological weather event.