An open letter to Felicity Porter
Or perhaps I should be calling you ”Lindsey.” Yes, old friend, the charade is over. I know all about your clandestine life.
Certainly, I can understand your reluctance to inform the whole world about your sudden and bizarre interest in firearms and international espionage. (Wasn’t it just yesterday you were torn between the innocent pursuits of art and medicine?). But I’m not just anybody — I’m supposed to be your friend, Felicity. Don’t you remember our weekly get-togethers with Elena, and Meghan, and Javier? The cups of coffee we’d sip at Dean & Deluca, the beers we’d throw back at The Epstein Bar? Apparently not. Otherwise, you might’ve called me, let me in on your little secret, taught me a thing or two about encrypting video messages onto microdots — a practice that’s apparently so much cooler than the personalized audio tapes that used to be your trademark.
Speaking of which, I haven’t gotten one of those since May 2002. Yes, I’m keeping track. And hoping just a little that maybe one of these days, you’ll take a few minutes from your hectic schedule of getting adrenaline shots to the chest and leaping onto the hoods of fast-moving trucks to send me another.