Dear J: I write from an Automat where I sit beside an unfinished sandwich, ham salad. Kidding! Sandwiches don’t exist in the 21st century, much as weathervanes, blood pressure and good intentions are obsolete. Recently I revert to the glass promises of yesteryear: to sip tea in the atrium when the sky inflates with violence; to rediscover the porn stash on the receding bank of the Connecticut; to live out yearbook prophecies, uphold the glittered, misspelled letter of the law. Your abs look good through the internet and three nostalgic filters. How are your poses? Your nerves? Spellcheck changes finance to fiancée. My inbox promises cheap prenatal suppplements. I am not old or ready. If you know nothing about tattoos for women, know this: that they are like the skin afflictions of any other land mammal; that they carry or not unspoken significance to the bearer; that they, like leeches or human love, do not deplete in a vacuum. Next year is my age of reason; I’ll put you down for guacamole and beer.