Holly Golightly

Dear Holly,

You’re quite the girl, but how would you like it if began calling you Lula Mae? Isn’t that what Fred calls you? It seems only fitting that if you’re to call me Fred instead of Paul (especially creepy now that he’s dead), I should call you Lula Mae. Barnes, is it?

You have a mighty high opinion of yourself, fifty dollars for the powder room and another fifty for cab fare after running up a liquor tab until dawn, when you slip away like a cat to enjoy your breakfast at Tiffany’s before retiring for a pre-SingSing nap, all without bothering to carry a key to your apartment. Instead, you disturb artists at rest, promising risqué sittings as appeasement, never intending to follow through.

And then there’s your list—your “a girl keeps up with these things” list, comprised of the wealthiest unmarried men under the age of fifty. Why stop there? If you lifted that age maximum, you’d get rich sooner—older men tend to die sooner than young men (well, except for Fred).

Speaking of older men, there’s also the issue of your husband. There’s an inconsistency with you claiming it was “annulled ages ago” and continuing to use his name. Which is it, Holly Barnes or Lula Mae Golighty? It can’t be both.

You call yourself a wild thing because you can’t choose a name for your cat, but you’re more domesticated than he’ll ever be with your cocktail parties, photo shoots, and dinners out. I imagine you learned that “Moon River” song for an audition. What, pray tell, is a huckleberry friend?

I cannot believe that I gave up my benefactress for a gold digger like you, who’s also led me into a life of crime: running from the police with foreigners, shoplifting from a discount store, and defacing public property.

So, whatever you call yourself, Ms. Golightly, please just go.

Best wishes,

Paul. Varjak (not Fred)

P.S. I didn’t even mention your ties to organized crime. Do not climb in my window again. I would hate to have to lock it.