Dear Axel, It is incredibly stupid to write this text while I’m drunk. But what’s the saying? No gain, no pain. Or, no pain, no shame... Whatever. You know what I mean. And let’s face it. There’s no way I would be doing this if I was stone-cold sober. But since I’m plastered? To hell with it. I want you. I know. Crazy, right? Not only am I your temporary roommate but I’m a chatty nurse from Providence with an impeccable bedside manner and secrets. You’re a broody, commitment-phobe sculptor from England who communicates in grunts and single syllables. Not to mention, you’re returning home in several weeks. And yet, from the moment you dragged me for being a Swiftie, I’ve wanted to climb you like my personal jungle gym. There’s no future for us. I’m not even sure I like you half the time. But that doesn’t stop me from hungering for those same hands that bend and shape metal to bend and shape me. So in all my drunken glory, I guess what I’m trying to say is if you want me, I’m yours. For the next few weeks until you return across the pond and we resume our lives as before. No strings. No demands. No regrets. So meet me in the kitchen where all this started. Or don’t. It’s your decision. Not that it matters. It’s not like I’m going to do something monumentally dumb and hit send on this text. —Zenobia