Years later, maybe twenty, she writes “Why are you still writing me? I don’t think our correspondence is healthy. It’s been enjoyable hearing from you. You always wrote interesting and occasionally witty letters, not that I was ever interested in anything that happened in your rat nest of a city or thought that wit was such a great thing to have. I prefer sincerity and plain-spokenness and not to think of cockroaches and rowhouses. But you’re married now and your wife probably resents your writing me and I don’t want to be the cause for any strain in your marriage. I know I’d resent a husband who was getting letters from a former lover he says he was once in love with and almost married to.” He wrote back saying “Sally accepts what I say, that we’re only friends now. And how often do we exchange letters, three times a year? I get the feeling the main reason you want to end the correspondence is because there’s nothing in it for you; in addition, you don’t like the act of writing: it takes too much of your energy and time. The phone would be far simpler and less physically taxing if all you want to know about is what’s happening and not what I’m thinking. So okay, I’ll stop, and a long good life to you and of course always my love to B-J.” She sends him a postcard: “That was extremely UNFAIR!!! Don’t be the louse and bastard you once were; I thought you had climbed out of that. And sure: ‘good life’ to me but ‘love’ to Brons. You couldn’t be more obvious. You’re a fuck!” He sends her a picture postcard of the New York skyline, and says “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I apologize; I swear my remark on the physical cost of letter writing was only a little dig I was giving and I meant no deep harm. As for the good life instead of my love, I thought saying anything approximating affection to you would be inappropriate after what you said about it. I hope this clears it up. Best ever, Gould.” She doesn’t write back, so her postcard was the last he ever heard from her.
Thinking about it soon after, he was glad to be through with the correspondence. He always answers when anyone writes him, so he felt stuck in it. But she was cutting him up too much in her letters and for no reason he could see and he’d wanted to say something about it but hoped she’d stop on her own. “You were usually such a sourpuss and at times acted like a fruity prude. Everyone we knew here felt that but they also thought there were decent and worthy things to you too. . You bitched too much when we were together, but about everything (especially the music and movies I liked and what I read and how I was raising B-J) and I’ve been wondering if you complain as much now to your wife. Nothing was ever good enough for you and I doubt that anything will ever be. You thought California culture the dimmest but you never convinced me that your depressing falling-apart East was superior or even its equal. And as for Europe: oh, you loved that place despite its fastidiousness,
