a strange wish

"My father wrote beautifully", Esmé interrupted. "I´m saving a number of his letters for posterity"
I said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at her enormous-faced, chronographic-looking wristwatch again. I asked if it had belonged to her father.
She looked down at her wrist solemnly. "Yes, it did" she said. "He gave it to me just before Charles and I were evacuated". Self-consciously she took her hands off the table, saying "Purely as a momento, of course". She guided the conversation in a different direction. "I´d be extremely flattered if you´d write a short story exclusively for me sometime. I am an avid reader".
I told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn´t terribly prolific.
"It doesn´t have to be terribly prolific. Just so that it isn´t childish and silly" She reflected. "I prefer stories about squalor"
"About what?" I said leaning forward.
"Squalor. I am extremely interested in squalor"



For Esmé -with love and squalor -  J D Salinger