September 1st

Dear friend,

Last night the rhythm of my keyboard scratched an itch in my brain as I typed in the right set of commands, and as I hit enter, the silence that followed marked the end of my workday. I saw dollar signs reflected back at me in the glowing text, and it was then I felt how dry my eyes had become, my only metric for how much time I had spent working. That moment reminded me of how long it has been since I've written to you, and so here I am. I know you're groaning at talk of my work, and lately it has consumed me, but don’t worry, I will not bore you with details. As you know, the life of a hacker is not interesting, as the life of a spy wouldn’t be interesting if described to you by said spy. The issue with asking someone about their own life is that they can't help but bore you with all the context that a good journalist would know to leave out.

Walking home later, I watched a woman heading in the same direction. It was dark, and the street was quiet, so I adjusted my speed so as to not get too close. We marched in that procession for a few blocks before I crossed the street to overtake her, and it was then that she was approached by a man. At first I thought he was asking for change, but he pulled a knife from his pocket, and I watched as he exchanged threats for her wallet. She looked towards me from across the road before handing it over, but she didn't bother asking for help. I think she saw right through me. I truly don't think she saw anyone there.

The funny thing is, later that evening I saw the same man a second time on my way to get a lottery ticket. He bumped into me on the way inside the store, and I apologized, though I'm not sure why in retrospect. He smelled of cigarettes, and it made me want one. I know I told you I had stopped smoking, and I had, but I will admit to you friend, I bought a pack from that convenience store. I didn't smoke the whole thing, though, since I gave one to the mugger when he asked on my way out. I'm really not sure why I didn't say no.

We didn't really talk much as we stood outside the shop. He asked me about my lottery ticket, and I told him it was probably a worse habit than the smoking. At least when I smoke, there is no delusion about the result. I found him quite likable, really. Having a smoke with a stranger introduces that sort of bias, I think. Maybe it is something about dying together. It's an insidious thing to be honest, as I fell asleep, I thought of that man with his wiry hair, and oversized army surplus jacket, but it wasn't until I began writing this to you that I thought of the woman he robbed. I’m not sure if that says something about him or me.

Well wishes.

Your friend.