Oliver, Shane McInerney and others in “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (pilot film)”

I went on a pilgrimage to the National Postal Museum two years ago. It was glorious.

I can't say that I ever went.

I got lost in it.

Did you go alone?

No. Well, sort of. I, uh, I took my wife, a lovely person whose interests extended far beyond the written word to, shall we say, the somewhat decadent. We were standing in front of the Pony Express exhibit. I turned around; she wasn't there anymore. I looked everywhere for her. I finally gave up. I went back to the Holiday Inn Express and, um, waited for her. She never came. I was just about to call the police when I noticed that little red light blinking on the phone. She left this message: she said that she was tired of being married to a government official, and she figured, since she was in Washington, DC, it was the closest she had ever been to Paris, so she was getting on a plane and moving to France.

I'm so sorry, Oliver. Did she ever come back?

Not yet. The last thing she said on her message was, "I'll send you my forwarding address. Au revoir!" Actually, she pronounced it "or rev-or," but I assume her accent's much improved by now.

Don't you think you've waited for her long enough?

I believe in keeping promises. I am, after all, a gentleman.

That you are.