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I look at the book. I am excited. A journal. A link back to a lost past, albeit only recent.

‘Have you read it all?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Most of it. I think I’ve read everything important, anyway.’ 

He pauses and looks away from me, scratching the back of his neck. Embarrassed, I think. I wonder if he is telling me the truth, what the book contains. 

He drains the last of his mug of coffee, and says, ‘I didn’t force you to let me see it. I want you to know that.’

I nod, and finish the rest of my drink in silence, flicking through the pages of the book as I do so. On the inside of the front cover is a list of dates. 

‘What are these?’ I say.‘They’re the dates we’ve been meeting,’ he says. ‘As well as the ones we had planned. 

‘We’ve been arranging them as we go along. I’ve been calling to remind you, asking you to look in your journal.’

I think of the yellow note tucked between the pages of my diary today. ‘But today?’

‘Today I had your journal,’ he says. ‘So we wrote a note instead.’

I nod, and look through the rest of the book. It is filled with a dense handwriting that I don’t recognize. Page after page. Days and days of work.

I wonder how I found the time, but then think of the board in the kitchen and the answer is obvious; I have had nothing else to do.

I put it back on the table. A young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt comes in and glances over to where we sit, before ordering a drink and settling at a table with the newspaper. 

He doesn’t look up at me again, and the twenty-year-old me is upset. I feel as though I am invisible. 

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