Then, after drinking a third half coffee cup of hazelnut liqueur, I started in with never and always. I wrote Frederik that he had upended my entire life and that I’d loved him from the moment I saw him and that nothing could ever get in the way of my love. I wrote that Buddhism is not very well thought out because it’s perfectly clear that things disappear even when we aren’t trying to see them, which is proven by the fact that for several weeks now I hadn’t been trying to see him, but he had still disappeared completely. Because of the hazelnut liqueur, this sentence struck me as exceptionally lucid. I wrote, “Selma, Elsbeth, and the optician also send their very best, of course.” I wrote that yesterday the optician had yet again resolved to reinforce the weak spots in Selma’s floor with Palm’s help. “This is an impossible state of affairs,” the optician said, even though it had been possible for years. I wrote that Frederik not writing was also an impossible state of affairs, and moreover, I wrote that perhaps the opposite was true and he may well have already written seven letters, not one of which, unfortunately, had arrived because of the above.

I screwed the top back on the bottle of liqueur, put it under the table, and slipped four violet pastilles into my mouth. Mr. Rödder had hidden small stashes of violet pastilles everywhere, even in the pot of a discarded coffee maker.

I pried open the door and steered clear of Mr. Rödder as he unpacked the new releases. At the counter, I found a book of stamps. I had no idea how much the postage for a letter to Japan cost, so for good measure I covered the entire envelope with stamps.

The optician entered the bookstore. He had only come to pick me up, but still he held up a book on home repair I had ostensibly recommended to him and which had changed his life.

“Yes, fine, I get it,” Mr. Rödder called from the back of the store.

“You’re completely disheveled,” the optician said when we were in the car. “Have you been drinking? You smell like, I don’t know, like violet liqueur.”

“Stop at the mailbox,” I said as we drove into the village. “I’ve written to Frederik.”

“Just now? In your condition?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe you should sleep on it,” the optician suggested, “or show it to Selma first.”

We always showed important letters to Selma before sending them. When the optician had to send payment reminders to his customers, he always showed them to Selma and asked, “Is it too brusque?”

“It’s much too nice,” Selma replied in most cases.

“Nonsense,” I said, “I’m mailing it now. Enough with the careful precautions already.”

I put my arm over the optician’s shoulders like a self-important driving instructor.