Cassie
Dear Miss Greenberg,
I had not intended to be funny in my note to you, though I am pleased to have made you laugh regardless.
On an unrelated note, the woman who lives on the second floor just informed me Thursday is “trash day.” I was unaware of this, as I am not in the regular habit of throwing things away.
Now that there are two of us here we might want to participate in this weekly ritual. I assume you throw things away? If so, would you be so kind as to procure a rubbish bin? I do not own one, nor do I know what one costs or how one would go about obtaining one. I will deduct whatever you spend in purchasing one from your monthly rent.
With kind regards,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
ps: Regarding your questions concerning WiFi and network names and passwords I do not believe I have any of those things, but I will confer with Reginald and let you know.
I stared at that note for a while before replying to it.
How could a grown adult not have a trash can? And not know where to get one?
And he didn’t know if he had Wi-Fi? That had to be another of his peculiarly dry jokes. I’d follow up with him about that the next time I saw him.
Frederick—I don’t throw much away either. I don’t like getting rid of anything that might have a use later, especially since upcycling is a big part of my art. But on principle I feel like two grown-ups should own at least one single trash can between them. Right? I’ll get one at Target after work.
Cassie
ps: Why do you keep calling me Miss Greenberg? There’s no need for us to be so formal with each other, is there? Just call me Cassie. :）
Before I could talk myself out of it, I added a quick smiling sketch of myself, holding a garbage can in my arms, before leaving the note on the kitchen table. I hadn’t drawn little cartoon figures in a while, and I told myself it was good practice to drown out the voice in my head yelling at me for flirting with him.
Frederick’s reply was waiting for me on the table when I got home from work with our brand-new kitchen trash can.
Dear Miss Greenberg Cassie,
The picture you drew for me on your latest note is lovely. Is that meant to be you? You clearly have a great deal of talent.
Thank you for handling the rubbish bin situation.
Per your request, going forward I will do my best to refer to you by your first name rather than “Miss Greenberg.” However, calling you “Cassie” goes against both my upbringing and my instincts. As such, please be patient with me if I occasionally forget and revert to more formal manners of address.
FJF
I quickly tamped down the strange rush of pleasure that shot through me at his compliment on my art, reminding myself that I’d spent less than ten minutes on that doodle and he was clearly only trying to be nice. I chose instead to focus on how weird he was being about calling me by my first name.
Frederick,
It goes against your upbringing and your instincts to call me Cassie instead of “Miss Greenberg”？ Really? Who raised you, Jane Austen?
Cassie
At the end of that note I drew a hasty caricature of someone in old-fashioned garb, just to be a jackass.
His reply was waiting for me on the kitchen table the following morning.
Dear Cassie,
Not . . . exactly Jane Austen, no.
Also, is that meant to be a picture of me?
FJF
Frederick,
Not exactly Jane Austen, eh? Intriguing. Well in either case, thank you for trying to call me by my first name.
And yes, that’s supposed to be a picture of you. Don’t you see the resemblance?? Tall, stick-figure arms and legs, surly expression, clothes straight from the set of Downton Abbey?
Cassie
Dear Miss Greenberg Cassie,
Oh, yes. I suppose I do see SOME resemblance. Though I do think my actual hair looks much better than it does on the bald little man you’ve drawn here. Don’t you?
（What is Downton Abbey?）
FJF
Frederick,
Downton Abbey is an English TV show. I think it’s set about a hundred years ago? Something like that. Anyway, it’s not really my thing, but my mom and all her friends love it. Also, you dress just like Cousin Matthew, one of the characters.
Oh, and by the way—you got a few packages this morning. I stacked them on the table for you—right beside your Regency romance novels. （You’ve been getting a lot of packages lately, actually. I know they’re not addressed to me, so I’m not examining them too closely, but I have to admit—I am INTRIGUED. They’re so weird???）
（Also, Regency romance novels, huh? I haven’t read many of them myself, my guilty pleasures trend more towards trash television, but—I definitely approve.）