It was a lazy afternoon last summer when I first unearthed her notebook, which was beautiful, if a little dusty and beat up. Somehow I could tell it was an artifact. I set it on the coffee table and dusted off the cover gently. "What's this?" I asked, trying to be casual.
"Oh, that. It's nothing."
"Can I read it?"
"I'd rather you not, it's--it's kind of personal."
I left it at that. She put it back away, locking up those little secrets she'd written on its pages, expecting me to pretend they weren't there. And I didn't press the issue, but the day stayed with me. That look of mixed fear and embarrassment in her eyes as she saw it. Whatever it was, I couldn't be trusted with it.
Today, as I was lying in bed doing nothing but enjoy the weather, I was interrupted by the doorbell. The UPS driver was leaving as I opened the door. He'd left a small package on my doorstep, with no return address. I cut it open on my way upstairs--she'd sent me the notebook. I don't know why she wanted to share her secrets with me now that we barely speak anymore, and there was no explanation attached. A phone call confirmed she'd sent it but she wouldn't comment, except to request that I read it.
Sometimes it's good to know that someone knows everything.
20090522
sharing secrets
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