It's over. It's over. It's over. How many times do I have to tell you it's over? I wish I could penetrate your thick skull as easily as--oh never mind. From your last letter I was able to deduce that you still carry the torch ("Darling, you're a cruel bastard, but I still carry the torch," page 17). Well, drop it. That week in Miami Beach was just a lark. Every day I spent with you was the worst day of my life. I was not cut out to be a gigolo. The way you fondled me at the Light Opera of Coconut Grove was unpardonable. I'm not that kind of boy. I thought I was, but I'm not. I should have stayed in Cincinnati. I may have been bored, but at least I could hold my head up high. With you, I learned how to lie. Remember how I complimented your cooking? Well fasten your seat belt, the truth is your meat loaf was the pits, equaled only by your abominable pot roast. I assure you, Mrs. Inkwell, I am cruel only to be kind, and if you had the slightest shred of literacy you'd recognize the reference. Leave me alone! Abandon your cockamamie plan to follow me to Bangalore; you'll only be wasting your time--you'd look lousy in a sari, and anyway, I've changed my plans. I leave tomorrow for parts unknown. Please pick on somebody your own age.