Dear Winnie Loeffler,

I'm sorry for making you feel uncomfortable.

This was January 1991, the first day of the second semester. You were in a good mood, maybe because you were to be graduating that spring. We had just returned from winter break. We hadn't seen each other in almost a month when I bumped into you on the second floor of the library. We hugged hello. Then you got that look like you'd just remembered something.

"Dave," you said. "I didn't know your dad made pens."

I gulped, worried. This was not a conversation that would end well. "Umm... pens?" I said.

You then pulled a pen out of your pocket and held it up for me to see. It was one of those click-button pens with the clear-plastic top with liquid in it. The type you find at a gift shop at a tourist spot, with a skier skiing down a mountain, or a sliding San Francisco trolley car. In this one, though, there was a small man dressed in a blue suit. You turned it upside down and the suit fell away, revealing his large erection.

"That's him, right?" You giggled devilishly, readying your zinger. "You must be so proud!"

I laughed, too. This was a funny joke. Of a kind we'd often enjoyed together. I've always liked dirty jokes. Especially ones about friends' family members or, in turn, my own family members. The fun of being good humored about topics that make other people uncomfortable, I guess.

But now there was a problem. I didn't what to do. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. You were my good friend who I liked to laugh with so much, who was also good humored about topics that made other people uncomfortable.

You were about to be uncomfortable, though. I knew this. I thought maybe I shouldn't say anything. But I knew you'd find out soon, you'd talk to Carter or Todd or someone else who knew. Someone would tell you and you'd feel bad then, probably even worse. I thought we might as well get it over with.

"Umm, Winnie?" I started. "I don't want to you to feel bad about this. It's really okay. And I'm sorry this is happening this way. But, I guess you should know: my dad just died."

Your face fell and went white. You knew I wasn't kidding. Then your cheeks blushed bright and you giggled. But not in the nice devilish way this time. You covered your mouth.

"I mean not just just," I said. "Like three weeks ago. It's okay." He'd had cancer for a year-and-a-half. It's likely that you didn't even know that. I didn't talk about it a lot.

"Oh my God," you said. Your eyes were wide.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to sound as okay about it as I could. "I would have told you. We hadn't seen each other. I didn't mean to tell you like this."

"I... am... so... sorry...."

"It's really okay."

It really was. Your joke didn't make me feel bad. It's not like you telling me that my father was the guy with the big dick in the pen reminded me that he'd died. Like I hadn't been thinking about it up to that point.

If anything, it made me feel better. It was good to be back at school. Back with friends. Away from home, where the credenza in the kitchen was covered with condolence cards and the fridge was filled with whitefish. (I love whitefish. But, Jesus, you can only eat so much of the stuff.) It was good to be subject to the dirty jokes, the teasing, the bullshit back-and-forth that marks normal life. In fact, as much as I felt bad that you had to learn the news in such an unfortunate way, a devilish part of me was glad. Talk about a zinger.

Dave Bry is the Awl Associate Editor for Bad Feelings, Merenhouse and General Turntablism.