No attacks today, but I told Dominic that I thought they might be coming back.
“That’s bad,” he said. “How long had you been clear of them?”
“I can’t remember, it must be in my diary somewhere.”
“Has the diary helped?”
“What?
“Have you found anything that could be setting them off?”
“Oh. No. Not really. But I haven’t really checked, I keep forgetting to write things down.”
“You should hand it over to me, I’ll check through it. I’m good at seeing patterns.”
I laughed, but I wouldn’t want him to read this. Such a small, sad, diary, full of the boring things I ate and the dull things I said and did and not a trace of love or violence or drama. I wouldn’t want him to think I lead this kind of life. I wouldn’t want to live this kind of life. I don’t want to lead this kind of life.
