My dear Bond, James:
By the time you read this, I will be beyond your reach, returned to the Nowhereness of being an anonymous figure in the crowd of your women.
I won't insult you by pretending either of us will be upset; we understand each other far too well for that. Each was a convenience for the other, a moment, trapped in the amber of time, to be examined as a keepsake, but not to be overvalued, or renewed. Still, I will remember with fondness the moonlit car chases, playing jet-ski bumpercars; the hours at the firing range (I still maintain that I would have outscored you had your hands not begun to wander). The full-contact naked judo, the...dare I say it? Bondage?
But all ties, like all persons, are mortal, and ours is now dead, as shall, in such a painfully short time, we be. I have taken your beloved Walther PPK as a memento, and left you one of my knives in return. I hope it will amuse you. Do not attempt to search me out- not that I expect you will- for I do not choose to be found. It is I, this one time, who does the abandonment scene, and comes out the Pyrrhic victor.
And so now, Mr. Bond-