#andelia

1. You were right to discourage me from buying the dancing coatrack from that catalogue. I slept a grand total of three hours the first night. The oak devil refused to stop waltzing. 

2. Ye olde Oxford comma: Barnabas struck one from my most recent draft, and it’s come to my attention we’ve never broached the subject. My initial thought placed you staunchly against, but now I’ve thought on it for more than 60 seconds, I’m not so sure. 

Point: The Oxford comma is unnecessary in most cases. In the print business, it’s a waste of ink and, by extension, money.  

Counterpoint: The Oxford comma avoids confusion and affords clarity. Above all, it is a time saver. Without it, who know how long we might spend ironing out the embarrassing miscommunications that result from its absence? 

What is more valuable than time? I daresay you may join me in Camp Counterpoint, mate. 

3. I’ve cast Immobulus 96 times since Fred Astaire arrived in the post. Somehow, he keeps breaking out of it. (I’ve named the dancing coatrack Fred Astaire, by the way.) I’d toss him, but I’m afraid he might enact some brutally well-choreographed revenge upon me. You don’t happen to know of a stronger freezing charm, do you?

4. The typewriter you gifted me hasn’t worked properly since the article. I think it’s sore with me, too. I can just about hear you disagree with me, but your voice is muffled. It’s dead frustrating, mate.

5. I had some difficulty entering your flat the day I stopped by. Unsure why. Here are some of the possibilities I’ve considered. Only you and/or Fred (MacDougal, not Astaire) can confirm or deny:

Unbeknownst to myself, I stepped in the Mt. Everest of impolitely disposed gum.

Someone dipped my shoes in glue. (A MacDougal-esque endeavor, if I ever heard one.)

I was victim to a nonverbal freezing charm. (I’m not saying it was you, but if it was, I wonder if you might someday consider casting it on Fred [Astaire, not MacDougal].)

My miserable, slouching conscience grew so heavy it caused a brief lapse in my mobility. 

6. I’m sorry. I couldn’t decide whether to open or close with this one. I hope by burying it in the middle I’ve held you off from making kindling of the parchment. If you’re becoming incredulous, if your eyes are narrowing and your fingertips are verging on a crumple — wait. This graceless apology isn’t for the way my article affected your career or the Ministry’s efforts. It’s for the article itself, and for the way I conducted myself that afternoon at your flat. It’s for the cold and careless manner with which I told you I wouldn’t undo it. I’d undo it this very instant if I could. 

7. (In fact, I’m in the process of undoing it now. I’ve picked up a new source at the Ministry and with his high level of security clearance, it won’t be long before I’ve gained access to the Time Turners that will allow me to unravel this entire debacle.) 

8. You’re worth more to me than any story. I’m ashamed that I made you feel otherwise. 

9. I popped into Flourish and Blotts last night after work. I hoped I might find something on unruly magical objects (for the Fred Astaire situation), but I turned up empty. After nearly two hours in the stacks, just as I’d begun to fear the entire wizarding world was conspiring to punish me for my shitheadedness, there it was: “Charm Your Way to a Better Life.” The second volume, to boot. As most things do these days, it made me think of you.

10. Every stray thought I mean to add to this list leads to another. I miss you more and more by the minute. 

11. It isn’t even the everyday occurrences I most want to tell you about. There are plenty, of course. Fred Astaire could fill fifteen letters all on his own, I’d wager, but there are more important things. Like the book at Flourish and Blotts. One look at it, and I was sixteen all over again. I never told you this, mate, and I doubt if the thought ever crossed your mind, but I was actually paying you a bit of interest that day in the library. I’d known you were friends with Freddy for ages, but he didn’t seem to think you’d be too keen on me at the time. I suppose he was right, and I can’t blame you considering my chosen strategy involved lambasting your choice of book and remarking on the shine of your shoes. A less annoying ponce would have opened with “How are you?” and perhaps worked his way up to the fact he liked your smile. 

12. I still do like your smile. I miss it nearly as much as the astounding efficiency with which you put away entire pots of coffee while also scaling the Kilimanjaros of paperwork. 

13. Your work ethic is a world wonder. Mine is increasingly shit without you. Last night, I actually attempted a waltz with Fred Astaire rather than set to work on an upcoming piece on werewolves in the underground. And I actually want to write that! The situation is truly dire, mate. 

14. I realize that I’ve been making a right prat of myself from the moment we met, and that I’ve now graduated from prat to traitor, but you remain my dearest friend in the world, Amelia, and I love you. If nothing else, I hope this can convince you that. 

15. If you’ve made it this far, am I right to assume it’s because some minuscule part of you does miss me too? If that’s the case, I’d like to offer an alternative to the Time Turner: a visualization technique. Take a deep breath. Picture me apologizing, out loud and in person. Face to face. Not for the damages to your career — although I remain sorry for that as well — but for the damages to our friendship and my betrayal of your trust. Now, if you can, picture yourself forgiving me. I know that it’s difficult. I know it may take more than one round of visualizing to get there. I’ve been so profound an ass, it could take a decade or longer. But that’s quite alright. I miss you, mate, and I’ll wait however long you need.