I will write more soon. Give my regards to everyone on the estate. I hope the weather in New York has been very fine.
Love,
Frederick
Hey Frederick,
Would it be okay if I turned the temperature in the apartment up a few degrees? I haven’t wanted to say anything about it since you pay for utilities, but it’s a little colder in here than I’m used to. Even three blankets isn’t cutting it at nighttime.
Cassie
Dear Cassie,
Please accept my apology. Cold temperatures do not bother me the way they do other people, and I should have anticipated you would prefer a warmer place to live. Let me know the temperature I should set the thermostat to for you to be more comfortable and I will take care of it.
I wish you had said something about this to me earlier. I hate the idea that you’ve been uncomfortable since moving in.
FJF
ps: That picture you drew of yourself wearing a parka and mittens is adorable, though it does make me feel like even more of a heel for keeping you in the cold for so long.
Frederick,
Thank you!!!!! I didn’t like the idea of you having higher utility bills because of me, though （which is why I didn’t say something earlier）。 Can I pay the difference?
（Also, I’m glad you like the picture. Adorable, though?! I spent like 5 minutes on it. The mittens are totally lopsided.）
Cassie
Cassie,
Do not worry about the difference in the utility bill. I will cover it.
And if you drew something that precious in only five minutes I daresay you are very talented indeed. I find the lopsided mittens especially charming.
FJF
I was halfway down the block towards the el, on my way to my library shift, when I realized I’d forgotten my sketchpad.
I glanced at my phone. It was Night at the Museum night at the library, and the children would start showing up in forty-five minutes. I couldn’t draw at work with a library full of kids armed with paintbrushes, but at that hour there were usually some open seats on the train so I could sketch en route. I was in the beginning stages of thinking through what my piece would be for the art exhibition. My conversation with Frederick the other night about my art had provided a little inkling of a submission idea: I’d create a traditionally painted pastoral scene—a field of daisies, possibly a pond—and then subvert it with something decidedly unpastoral, like plastic wrap or soda straws worked into the canvas.
It was still early days, and I had more thinking to do before I was ready to put paint to canvas. But I’d been taking my sketchpad with me everywhere I went in case inspiration and a few minutes’ free time happened to coincide.
It was just after six. I had just enough time to run back home, get my sketchpad, and then get to the library in time for art night. It would be tight, and Marcie would likely be a little irritated with me—but I’d make it.
I took the stairs up to our apartment two at a time, not worrying about how much noise I made. I didn’t know if Frederick was home, but at this hour he’d either be already awake or out. Either way, I didn’t have to worry about waking him up.
My sketchpad was where I’d left it on the kitchen table, beside the note I’d left for Frederick earlier that morning:
Hey Frederick—I won’t be home much the next few days. I have a late shift tonight and I’m having dinner at Sam’s tomorrow. So could you take out the trash this week? Thanks! I promise I’ll do it next week.
Cassie
At the bottom of the note, I’d sketched a little smiling cartoon guy holding a trash can above his head. Frederick claimed to like my little drawings, and his compliments—always worded in such formal language, but seemingly genuine all the same—always made my stomach do a funny little swoop.
As I picked up my sketchpad from the kitchen table I noticed he’d written a short reply:
Dear Cassie,
Yes, I can take out the trash can. It is no trouble whatsoever, and you do not need to worry about “making it up to me.”
Additionally, that drawing is very nice （all of your drawings are very nice, everything about you is very nice） but is that supposed to be me? I am certain I never smile quite like that.
Yours,
FJF
He’d added his own drawing of a stick figure to the note, with an exaggerated frown nearly as big as its head. I couldn’t help but laugh.
The drawing was so silly.
And Frederick was about the furthest thing from silly a person could be.
Or so I’d thought, anyway.
Also—the Yours, FJF?
Yours.
That was new.
I refused to let myself think about what it could mean. All the same, I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face as I picked up my sketchpad.