Margen
I bought the notebook for its spine, for its weight, for the way it opened flat on the table.
Three weeks now and I still haven't touched it.
The first page demands a handwriting I don't have, a sentence worthy of the paper, a life in slightly neater copy.
The other ninety-nine ask for nothing: shopping lists, phone numbers, a coffee stain, the crooked writing of notes taken on the bus.
That's where I live, in the middle pages. But the first one rules.
Today I opened it and wrote the date. Just the date. Crooked.
Now it's ruined. Now it's begun. Now it's mine.