Phoning her was out of the question, Adam reasoned. Before he could begin his approach, she would hang up on him. Over and over again he told himself that a letter was the only approach. Though he didn't like the idea, he finally faced the fact that there were no alternatives, so he spent an entire evening writing, throwing away, changing and writing some more.

It was after midnight when he finished and as he reread his letter, he still wasn't sure it was right.

He began the letter by telling of the tragic loss of his wife and went on to tell how, after a long period during which masturbation was his only sexual outlet, he accidentally became a peeping Tom. He told her how he had tried to fight it, realizing the danger it involved, but that he hadn't had the strength to stop.

Then came the really tough part where he told her what he had seen when he peeped into her window that night. He didn't dwell on details, saying just enough so that she would know what he had observed – the lapping and the fucking King had given her. He told, too, that in his wild arousal and jealousy of the dog, he had jacked off outside her window.

Much of the letter was an impassioned plea for her to agree to see him, pointing out that he was a loner, an unhappy lonesome man, and that he sensed it was a problem they shared, that in getting to know each other, in talking of their problems and of life, they could, hopefully, build a new life for themselves, one which would be full and rich and rewarding. If not, he pointed out, at least they would have discussed their problems and perhaps even that would be helpful to both. After much debate with himself, he mailed the letter on Friday evening, knowing she would receive it on Monday. He hadn't signed the letter, for obvious reasons, but he promised he would phone her on Monday for her answer.

On Monday morning, at ten o'clock, Adam went to a quiet restaurant where there was a phone booth in the back, and his hand trembled as he fed a dime into the slot and dialed her number.