A letter? Really? A letter? Blue was screwed and she knew it. The actual process of writing a letter was fine, and, in fact, it was actually rather fun most of the time. But Blue had a tendency to, well, lets say go off track a little when writing. It was the curse of having too many thoughts inside her head to keep track of. When she wrote, all those thoughts spilt onto the page in all their imperfect glory. She was much better at writing poetry than letters. Poetry was reliant on her flawed filter, it thrived in the mess and the chaos that came from complication. She could write for hours and each piece of work would be better than the last, but letters? Not quite her thing. And then there was the whole thing about making it mysterious.
Blue was about the most unsubtle person in the world.
So, that was out of the question. Of course, she could come up with a riddle or some literary clue to where the date would be held rather than just saying it, but that took planning, careful thought and deliberation. Blue was too impatient for that. So, she sat down at her desk and started writing, and this is what came out:
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Her outfit:
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