I couldn’t be that far. On my way out I smoked two cigarettes. Add that to your daily list of things. One. He smoked two cigarettes on his way out. Two. I feel nothing. Three. I stopped the elevator between floors to cry, hoping that somebody would hear me. Four. Nobody heard me. I wept and I wept until my weep turned into gibberish. Five. I am not weeping in the house. Six. He might hear me and ask questions. […] Twenty-nine. He used the red towel today. Thirty. He never uses the red towel on Wednesday. Fifty-five. Too much aftershave. The smell is like a blanket.

I am far enough. People can’t see me here because I don’t belong to them.

Sixty-three. Sang in the bathroom today. Sixty-four. Showered longer than usual. Took a peek through the keyhole. Memo to myself: hide the red towel. Take it out only on Wednesday.

She is probably looking through the keyhole. She hid the red towel under the blue towel. I have nothing to say about that. Really. I need to have some sleep. Alone. In the bathtub. I am afraid to love her. She might crumble. How can I not do that. Really.

126. This should stop. 127. I am afraid to love him. 128. He might crumble. 130. Really.

I left the keys where she left them. On the table.

140. I left the keys where he left them. 141. On the table.

I look into the mirror.

167. I look into the mirror.

We are like twins.

189. We are like twins.