Dear Rhonda,
You’ll probably screw this up before you even read it, but I miss you, and I’ve no-one else to write to.
For 27 years we came here, Harold’s B&B in Atlantic City, for July 4 weekend. From our first year of marriage ‘til last year. We always loved the sand between our toes as we held hands and walked along the beach. And sometimes we even won some money at Caesar’s.
Billy asked after you as I ordered one of his magnificent hot dogs yesterday. You could never believe how good they were, remember? And Stan was surprised to see me alone when I rode the rollercoaster on Pier 43. I couldn’t not stop by to see Frank and Sally, as we’ve known them for years now, and they were sad you weren’t with me too.
With so many great memories from this time of year, there was no way I could keep myself from here, even if you weren’t with me.
I kind of hope you’ll get this and wish you were here with me instead of with Roger.

The clunk as the screwed-up letter hit the bottom of the bin tore my heart out.