If you're not going to talk to me in real life, I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of my dreams.

I am reading (reading what?) on a couch (what couch?) in a room I have never actually been in. A fire burns nearby. I am alone but not lonely; in lieu of people, a good book can make fine company.

You come in. I’m not sure how, because as far as I can tell the room I’ve never actually been in doesn’t have any doors -- which may be why I haven’t been in it. You slip something into my book and sit at the other end of the couch. It’s a long couch. It grows longer when I glance up at you, but even from a distance, I see your smile.

What have you brought for me? Ah. A letter. The letter. This must be the one that I waited and waited for.

I don’t open it. I am content to hold it while I read, to share the large couch with you in companionable silence. Too bad.

I should like to know what it said.