Hey Mandy,
when I called you with my ridiculously lame excuse,
I didn’t realize it was a ridiculously lame excuse,
but that was probably because I was ridiculously lame at the time.
Shit, if in the intervening years, since… the accident…
you’ve become more sensitive about speech,
then I’m sorry about the “lame” commentary.

Keep in mind, I’m self-labeling,
so that means something, right?
Anyway…

I got your number from a mutual friend
because you seemed really cute
and cool, too
but I called saying, “Who’s number is this?”
Since you knew I had asked for your number,
my cover was blown from the start,
but you engaged with me anyway.
I really appreciated that.

We seemed to get along well.

You liked Elvis Costello, too,
having deeper thoughts on Imperial Bedroom than I did.

I felt a little stupid at the time.
I don’t know why I didn’t try to arrange a date.
Wasn’t that the point all along?
You were probably too much for me.

I was shocked to hear that you rammed
into a mountain,
but pretty proud to hear you’d written a novel
and some stories before then.
We hadn’t talked about that stuff
all those years earlier.

I’m so glad to hear you got so much done
in your years on the planet.

Bummer that it was a short life,
but you definitely lived it, Mandy.

I wish I was in it more.