Lizette had been on the road for months. Indonesia, China, India and the Middle East. On her second night in London she wrote Elliot a post card, because he’d told her he wanted letters he could keep.

The worst busker in the world plays at the tube station. He sings country standards out of key. He absolutely murders Ring of Fire—I remember how much you love that song. His name is Bob.

I wish you could be here to see him. (But not to hear!).

I miss you Darling (All her letters ended with those words. It surprised her, sometimes, how true they still were.) Love Lizette

Elliot wrote back immediately. I wish to meet this Bob the Busker. So I’ve taken the liberty of buying a ticket to visit him. I want to hear him murder Johnny Cash.

Bob no longer plays your song, she wrote. I paid him handsomely to have it taken from his repertoire. It would be a shame to let your ticket go to waste however. While you’re in London you should drop by.

I shall arrive by train on April 1st. Please meet me at the station. I intend to pay this Bob whatever it takes for him to murder that song from me for you.

2011—Richard Holt / small stories about love (smallstoriesaboutlove.wordpress.com)

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