mercy,

i can't remember if this happened on a tuesday or a sunday. i think it was raining. i think marceline was on the windowsill doing her judgmental loaf. i think you were wearing that black slip thing with the little tear at the hem you refuse to fix because you like the tear.

and i think — this is the part i'm sure of — you looked over at me from the other end of the couch, over the top of a book you weren't really reading, and you said "you're my favorite plain thing." and i said something dumb back. i always say something dumb back. i think i said "thanks?" like it was a question.

but i've been carrying that sentence around for months like a coin in a pocket. favorite plain thing. i turn it over on hard days. i turn it over on soft days too. it works both ways.

i don't need the memory to be accurate. i don't need to know if it was tuesday. i just need it to have happened, and it did, because i can feel the shape of it — the rain, the loaf-cat, the tear in the hem, you looking over the book, me being the favorite plain thing in a kingdom of extraordinary ones.

that's the whole postcard. don't fact-check me. let me have it.