Waking up, now that September has ended, she quickly grabbed her diary from under the pillow. While the fingers of her right hand fumbled for a pen on the night-stand, those of her left hand harassed the pages of the notebook – turning them hurriedly to reach October 1st.
Again this year, for the next 43 days, I will not be “a decade too young” for him.
Not a moment to lose. I have to go.
I have to flaunt before him the shortened gap between our intellects, our maturity – the imaginary gap that resides alone, in his head, and nowhere else.
Will come back to you soon… <sigh> as usual.
P.S. If only November came before October.. damn you November!
P.P.S. And yeah, Happy Birthday to me.
And the diary lay, waiting in silence – open on the night-stand, with only the pen soothing it – for the next 43 days.