Infrequent Nights

Dear Mr. Connors

We do not know one another. Our ships have sailed close at times but never close enough to exchange signals of greeting. However, I do know of you. And you, in a way, know of me. You know of my present living circumstances. The small bachelor apartment, with a noisy upstairs neighbour and a leaky front window. The trucks barreling past on the street at all hours of the day. I quite enjoy the place, as I'm sure you once did.

However, recently my enjoyment has been interrupted on a number of occasions. First it was the Sheriff. Then the Police. They stop by looking for you. I tell them you've moved on to greener pastures, but they keep coming to check. Maybe you've returned? Maybe you're under the bed. Maybe I am 'Michael Connors.' Who knows?

You see Michael Connors, you're a wanted man. I don't know what for. The bastards wouldn't tell me. But they certainly do want you. So, for the sake of my uninterrupted enjoyment of your former apartment, please turn yourself in.

Regards,

The man occupying the apartment formerly occupied by you.

PS: I hope you're not a psycho axe murderer. If so, please disregard this message and have a nice murder-free day.