He picked up the box; this time digging out the card on top with his thick fingers. Then he put it on the bottom of the pile. Replacing the cards as he read:
If you could master one instrument; what would it be.
As he thought; he signaled for another drink. The restaurant almost collectively held their breath at such an unusual occurance.
He sipped his beer in his normal thoughtful manner, before he put pen to paper.
He wrote: Did you mean to play with words in such a manner? That could be dangerous little girl. The body of a woman is an interesting instrument; one I may have already mastered.
You, for all your truency are lucky you hold a small piece of my heart, and that I did not play you for quite the fool that you generally are.
Satisfied with his answer; he again signed it H, and addressed a second envelope in the same manner as the first.
He thougtlessly drummed the pen a few times on both envelopes before setting it down.
The staff collected his empty beer glass, the stationary, and envelopes while bringing him a Brandy as his usual table mate arrived punctual as always as 10:35 PM.
He placed the box back in his jacket in the only quick move the regulars had ever seen him make.
In handwriting he would never forget the words were etched in his mind: Why was this story worth telling.
He twittled the pen in his hand, waited as another beer was brought over, and began to write.
I told this story, because I honestly thought you were dead. Not to be rude, but too ...