That last part, about not reading the e-mail — I really did send that.

And that’s when things got interesting.

She replied.

I did not reply to her reply. Instead, I wrote an entirely new message. It reiterated that she could send all the e-mails she wanted, but I wasn’t going to read any more on this subject.

She sent another.

I did not read it.

And, again, I wrote a new e-mail to say that I didn’t read it.

She replied.

I wrote yet another new e-mail. It said, more cleverly this time (it invoked Abe Lincoln), that, again, I had not read her reply, and that I would not.

She replied again.

I wrote again. This one said that “all good things must come to an end. And so I will say that you are welcome to keep that fan mail coming in, but not only will I not read it, I won’t even respond.” Its subject header was “and … adieu.”

Within minutes, my in-box received “RE: and … adieu.”

As with the others, I did not open it, and I did not read it.

And it was killing me.

I was dying to know what she had written in those e-mails. But it was a matter of honor that I had not read them. I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t.

It was the cyber equivalent of hanging up the phone on somebody.

But by e-mailing me after I e-mailed her, she got the last word.

True, I didn’t read it.

But now I am left trying to answer another age-old question: If your computer intones “You’ve got mail” but nobody reads it, was it ever really received?