How wonderful.

I can see mountains, blue sky and a busy ski lift. I can also see people laughing as they travel upwards. The bedroom is warm, cosy and I’m particularly happy that my head is resting between Elena’s legs. I can feel her prickly pubic hair on the back of my neck.

It was Elena’s idea, that I take my notetaking seriously. She gave me this book of pages – a copy of the very first notebook I stole from work. “Why seriously?” I asked. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just write.” So, I’m writing. Between Elena’s legs.

As always, the words are mine. Words are the empty shells of our thoughts. “I have your body and sound. Notebooks have your scribble.” Elena said this as we stood at the counter of the stationary store. “Make these pages your secret place,” she said holding up the notebook. “Be careful who you let in to read it.”

I have the feeling Elena will never want to be let in. She has her own world. She wants me to have my own. MY OWN WORLD. A secret place. Notetaking has become a habit. A place where my brain goes to relieve itself of the burden of thought.

“Be careful who you let in to read it.” I want to be read. I want keep the door to my secret place slightly ajar. I want to be seen.

Three winter flies are buzzing at the window. They’ll regret waking this early. Elena will get annoyed soon and tell me to open the window and let them out. I’m comfy. I’m too comfy. In three days we’ll be back home. In four days we’ll be nailed to our routine again. She used to like editing. She loved the whole publishing process. Not anymore.

I don’t work.

I could work now that Leo’s five and goes to school. “You could write a novel.” I’m married to an editor for goodness sake. “Pick a genre and go with it.” A romance? Now, that would make Elena laugh. She suggested science fiction. Should I lay a path of empty shells? It would be like renting your bedroom out to a lodger. They’d likely hang pictures where pictures shouldn’t be hung. They’d likely paint the walls in colours that aren’t right. They’d likely do things in your bedroom that shouldn’t be done.

She’s ignoring the flies.

She wants me to write. She knows how much I need to be between her legs. If she sees my pen move across the page, she’ll let me stay. She’ll ignore the flies and the kids arguing in the other bedroom.

They’ve stopped.

The kids not the flies. Emilia has regained control.

We’ve promised them fondu tonight so they really are making an effort. This has so far been a wonderful holiday. I’m naked. Except for my socks. This is the day I began taking my writing seriously with nothing on but warm feet.

I want to be read. God, angels, lovers. Who am I picturing reading this?

Someone’s there – but I don’t know who.