fifty

Sunday, 28-Mar

To honor you, dear Annie, I thought I’d continue where you left off writing in this journal. My way of grieving, you might say.

I looked forward to our retreat. I truly did.

I must say, though, fascinating reading, this, your journal. I enjoy the game you played with yourself as you attempted to stick to the facts. You failed most admirably. For all your insight, you didn’t comprehend what was right in front of your face.

I comprehend, so I shall keep a wee eye out for my next best opportunity for fun. I might have an idea and it begins with Nathan Tate. I had decidedly mixed feelings about him as I read your words, and then to hear his voice when he rang your mobile yesterday—surprise!

I’ve decided that I’d like to meet him. He’s not my usual type, but then I’m the curious sort, always expanding my horizons.

Do you remember when I said that I saw our sessions as a way to expand my horizons? Utter shite, but you lapped it up. You had approached me from around your desk with your direct gaze and firm handshake. No shying away for you. Back then you wore your hair around your shoulders and kept it dyed a pretty chestnut brown. Your roots showed, and it was those silver bits that hooked me.

You cared to be seen as younger, to connect with men as an attractive and viable woman. It’s the caring that brings people down. And this Nathan fella? He oozes care. One way or another, the wanker is in for a fall.