For this week’s Wednesday Write-in
Never look at your partner’s personal diary or screen. Unless invited. It‘s a bad thing. It can be a life-changer. Best not to know. And so my rule is, don’t look. Ever. If she is out of the house gone to get a takeaway for the two of you and you wander into her office and the diary on her desk is wide open at last Saturday’s page, the Saturday she spent with some old school mates, one of whom was once upon a time sweet on her and she was sweet on him, and it’s screaming, screaming, “Read me, read me, it’s all here, you’re just dying to know, don’t be so squeamish”, or her laptop is on and flashing like the eyes of a hundred beauties in a harem, pleading, “Look, look, here’s an email to read, she won’t know, she won’t know, she probably wants you to read it anyhow, read me, read me”, don’t do it. Resist. Eschew it. Abjure it. Foreswear it. Turn your back on it. Say, “Get thee behind me Satan, you ridiculous looking goat”, or something like that.
If you had gone into her office to fetch something, a pen, a disc, a dirty cup to put in the dishwasher, whatever, then squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, put some blue tack in your ears, and feel your away around until you find what you came for and get out of there. Pronto. Tout de suite. Unmittelbar. Straks. Don’t push your luck. Don’t mess with the Moirai. Say no to a dance with destiny.
Do what I say and not what I did.
I fell, I succumbed, I ate from the tree of life. I read the email. Well, she had only just started it. But that was enough. The To box showed every person in our shared lives. The Subject read simply, “Change of Address”.
Life’s not been the same since.