He's writing on something, too long for a letter but not enough for a book. When he's done for the day he puts the pages in a desk drawer and locks it, in plain sight so I'll wonder until the next time he takes them out.
I'm doing it to him too:
blogging while he's not looking, reducing him to words without giving
him a chance to comment. Does he write about me? I want to ask him as
much as I want him to know about this blog. Just to watch his reaction,
to see what he would do to me.
Today is Bastille Day, the
celebration of a violent revolution. It seems fitting somehow. We'll
watch the fireworks like we did last year, then drink the rest of the
night away, both of us stubbornly holding on to badly kept secrets.