Outside it was raining. Delilah sat down to write a letter. She would write it by hand.
My Dear Roland, she began.
She screwed up the letter and began again. My Dear Roland was too personal; too intimate.
Dear Mr. Shrewsbury. No. No. It was still not right.
Dear Roland, I have some sad news.
How was it best said? How could she put it into words?
Tears fell down her check. Tears echoed the rain on her window. I have some sad news. No! No! A teardrop stained the page.
Dear Roland, I have such sad, sad news. Delilah gasped with grief.
"Why bother at all?" she thought.
She stood. She screwed up her efforts. No, she wouldn’t bother. She wouldn’t bother at all.