Oh hey, Eileen, it was cool meeting you last week at Regional, my go-to spot for some killer sformatino di bietole. Man, they really do make it good there. So yeah, you may not remember me, I was at the table next to you. We didn't talk—well, at least not out loud—but I think we had a real connection, I don't think you can deny that, right? I saw the way you looked at me when I procured my mustache comb and maneuvered it gently over my lip, 15 brushes between each bite, real slow and sensual-like. The linguine alle vongole is perfection, but when you have a mustache that dangles over your top lip and gently kisses your teeth like I do, you got to do what you can to keep it fresh, you know? No ladies like a saucy mustache.

Anyway, Eileen, I don't usually do this, but I think it's time to tell you that, well, I like you. I really like you. You maybe noticed, the way I leaned way over in my chair and inhaled deeply every time you took a bite of your sea bass, but I loved experiencing those bites with you. I know you were with that guy, Dennis, but Eileen, baby, Dennis doesn't love you—not like me. Do you think Dennis cares about the way you eat, shifting your food from one side of your mouth to the other when you know someone is watching you, counting the number of times you chew before you swallow? Would Dennis collect your discarded napkins, still moist with remnants of your Moon Drops Moisture Creme lipstick? Do you think Dennis will stand outside your window all night while you sleep?

No, Eileen. Dennis would not do that. No one in the world cares about you like I do. I put these signs around your house, where you live on 94th and Broadway. Soon, I will put them in your house. I will put them in your drawers, on your walls, in your bed, and someday, soon, I will caress your skin with these signs that I made for you, Eileen, and only you.

Email me.

Yours until death,

Joe