Horror vacui.

Addison de Witt has decamped from Interior Design for parts as yet unknown. Much to our chagrin, the elusive, ever-enigmatic cicerone through realms of design and society both infernal and divine has left without leaving even a forwarding address. Of course, no one at the magazine has ever actually seen Addison—his disdain for office interiors and the humdrum drudgery they connote is itself legendary. No cubicle could confine his questing spirit. Instead, his missives would spill forth deliriously from our fax machine—from London, Paris, Deauville, Marrakech, and any number of whimsical cabarets and nameless dark bars.

When will I hear from my darling Addison again? When will I thrill to the sweet, threatening, insinuating tone of his voice? Perhaps never—and yet every night I lie awake for hours and hours staring at the telephone, nervously diddling the furbelows of my peignoir, breathlessly waiting to hear him once again whisper my name. And who calls me? Insipid decorators, whining architects. I could scream. Oh, Addison, how could you leave me this way!