(found in a puddle beneath the kitchen sink)
I’m sorry about all the leaking that you told me about, but – again – I don’t know why you decided to tell that to me. You ought to just fix that yourself, I think. What do you want me to do about it? I’m a long ways away.
Handle it yourself, if it’s that bad. Certainly, call the plumber at least. Or just get a wrench and take care of it yourself.
But what do you want me to do? You say your kitchen faucet is leaking and the spout that usually fills up your bathtub is leaking and that it all bothers you and that it keeps you up at night. What do you want me to do?
There’s plumbers out there. There’s people out there who can help you take care of it.
You say the drip of water falling from the faucet and into the bucket you placed in the sink is too loud and it echoes through the house. But, Harold, why did you put a bucket there in the first place? What’s the point of catching any of that water if it is just going to keep you up at night anyway?
Get out the wrench. Borrow a book on leaky faucets from the library. Or just call a plumber. But do something more than complain, Harold. You never looked good if you got too red in the face, and – the way you were writing in your last letter – you seemed quite a bit red in the face.
Or just move.
And have Cindy come over to make you a cup of tea. Have a good chat. Relax.