What exactly separates the simple from the sentimental? I asked her, and there was no reply. The next day she had gone before the break of day and left a postcard at the corner of my bed. The next time I asked her if by that, by an unsigned postcard with just a few lines written on its back, and no postage at all, she were being sentimental, she neither smiled nor laughed. Again, I felt quite foolish. For I had in life already received many postcards of all kinds, and many sorts. There once had been, I believed, a point in time when these things were considered a failsafe sort of thing to keep in touch with those who one must keep in touch with, in lieu of a letter proper. Who knows what their origins are, but I am sure I could look that up. I began to look forward to her departings, and finding, pinned to the corner of the mattress, another picture postcard with another brief note written upon its back. I began to collect them all, week after week, and stored them in a wooden Clementine box, the sort that comes from Spain in the wintertime. Even as the years passed, I looked forward to these little notes. I never wrote her back, as of love there was no deny.