The new day slipped in through the window and crept across her face. She relinquished the night.  The space between filling with a rush. She touched the corner of the envelope wondering if this was the day. Distended and puffy it had sat unopened for 53 days. She handled it gingerly fearing that the wisp of a scent, the remnant of an exhaled breath, the release of a sigh would escape from the pages that held them safely inside. She pictured the words, the slant and curve of them pouring from a familiar hand. She had spent mindless hours wondering how many there were. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be enough. One word would lead to two and then three until she had devoured them all, sick with her over indulgence. Just like that it would be over. There would be no more.  With that reality, more agonizing than the anticipation of knowing the words inside, she put the envelope down.  Today wasn’t the day.