Eddie,
I know who you are.
For years I used to dream about meeting you. The dreams took place in the darkest edges of my mind and in them you never really had a face or a voice. But you were always there, and it was always awful.
Then you were there, really there, that day in June, sitting on the green at Sapperton with a sheep. You were smiling at me, buying me drinks, and you were lovely. And I didn’t have a clue.
The world tastes like it did the summer I turned seventeen. Like bile in my throat.
We need to talk. Face-to-face. Below is my American cell number. Please call it. We can arrange to meet.
Sarah
