Getting toward the end of these letters - these lovely love letters, the like of which I was never to see again. In this one, he details his ritual of taking a shower. As if he has a need to paint me a picture of himself, a picture of who he is, of what he does and how he does it. As if these things will one day be a part of me as well. As familiar to me as they are to him now.

My darling, he says.

When I first read the letter, I thought that I could then write a bit about how I, too, became somewhat ritualistic. He talks about procedures, set formats, that he sets for himself, to which he rarely sticks with precision, "working instead, with considerable inventiveness I must say, on new and different ways or applications of geting the things I call essentials accomplished."

I suppose we all do that - but "I must say" that this describes my own approach to my day almost to the letter. So did he "instruct" me in this? Have I taken his habits as my own? Who knows? Who remembers?

And, reading this letter once again, I know I don't really care. There's no way of knowing. All that is really important is that he says, "My darling." That still breaks my heart.