Hello.

I wonder what you thought of me when you opened the door.
It seemed as if I wasn't quite what you expected. Someone older, maybe. I think you thought I looked silly, a silly girl, but this is always my fear. And I know that I can look silly, with my big teeth and pale skin and red hair. I was wearing some form of bastardized school uniform; black dress, black leggings, white blouse, black pumps, boy in a dress. I arrived on a bike, so maybe you didn't think I was a consumerist materialist terrible person.

I thought you were so secure, and so confident, but then at the end you started laughing more and you said you didn't like your photo being taken. So you must feel you might fall short in some people's eyes, or not like it for yourself. So maybe you thought I was a sharp young whippersnapper. And that's why you took me out to the garden, because you feel safer there and maybe you thought I might melt in the sun.

Maybe you hate me entirely. I'd admire you, even if I didn't adore you. Maybe you thought I would judge you. I did, I judged you utterly worthy and wonderful in every way. Not that you would care what a girl wanting to be a hack reporter thinks of you. Not that you care too much, anyway.

I can't tell if you liked me more or less at the end, I think you were more convinced that I wouldn't stitch you up. I could still be stupid and make a hash of it though, I could see you thought that.