Sundays are my day off, so that’s when I read your mail. I only take the things you weren’t expecting: new catalogs, letters from old lovers. I know which relatives you talk to and which ones you don’t, so I always take the birthday card from your aunt Sheila — you never notice when it doesn’t come.

Do I feel bad, taking what’s addressed to you? I used to. Sometimes I even sealed the best letters back up with glue sticks and slid them through your slot. But then I started writing back to your relatives and friends on your behalf. I’m polite but warm; we’ve struck up quite a correspondence. They’ve told me things I don’t think they’d ever reveal to you. Because of me your relationships are deeper and more fulfilling than you could possibly imagine. You’re welcome.

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