Dear Burglar of 244 Wicker Avenue,
You might remember my apartment as the cute little red brick walkup you hit last Tuesday sometime between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t expecting you, you sneaky devil. At first glance, I thought my husband had arrived home before me, but though he occasionally dumps our drawers onto the floor, he would never slash the mattress. (Did you think it was 1930? We use a bank.) When I realized it was not he but you who tore up our house, I was filled with butterflies. (I’m a huge Law & Order fan.) Without touching anything, I surveyed the damage. You obviously fancied our electronics, and I noticed that you managed to grab some treats in the kitchen. We like our guests to make themselves at home—and though we didn’t technically invite you, I concede that we didn’t explicitly tell you not to slide a crowbar through our locked door.
I must say that I was most concerned to see my jewelry box pulled from the closet and dumped on the bed. After the police arrived and did a thorough and commendable investigation, I started sorting through the mess. You can imagine my relief when I found that my favorite necklaces were still there among your discards. I was further relieved to see some of my less-valued pieces scattered on and under the bed, but, as I tried to figure out what was missing, it finally occurred to me that you didn’t take a single accessory. What were you looking for in the jewelry box—another laptop? Sure, it’s nice to have everything, but, seriously, you didn’t want any of it? Did you not see the chunky coral necklace? It looks great with a low-cut black dress. Or the blue-glass-and-silver chandelier earrings? Those are hot. Big oversight. Next time you rob a convenience store, you should consider picking up a Vogue. Then we’ll see who wants those chandelier earrings.
Warm regards,
Liz