Kevin

It was getting dark outside. You were sitting with Kevin on the carpet, eating pizza and watching a movie. He laughed, occasionally brushing shoulders with you. The air smelled of cheese and his shower gel—woody, with a hint of tobacco.

“Tea?” you asked.

• Yeah.

You went into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and returned a couple of minutes later.

The only light in the room was the bedside lamp. Kevin stood at the bedside table. Too quiet. In his hands was that very notebook.

He turned, the light falling on his face from below, sparks burning in his eyes.

"I was looking for a pen," the voice was low and purring. "And I found this."

He lifted the notebook.

— Explicit scenes. Half-page kisses. Touching in the dark. The one where they're in the kitchen in the morning. The other one—in the car in the rain.

He stepped towards you.

"And you know..." he leaned almost to my ear. "One of them has a birthmark. Like me."

He pulled away, looking into your eyes. He put the notebook down, but didn't move away. Between you, a palm.

“The kettle has boiled,” you exhaled hoarsely.

"Screw the tea," Kevin chuckled, taking your wrist and running his finger along your life line. His voice was a hoarse whisper:

— Do you want to practice using your notes?