Dear Diary,

During the month of November,

everyone is fair game.


If I see you, am reminded of you, notice you in any way, you become permanently part of me. Of my novel. Whether this novel is something I ever look at again, or anyone else will look at, you are a part of my repertoire. The description of you I used, the characteristics I found fascinating, these will remain with me always. There is no one in the background.

You cannot be a wallflower in my life if I am writing. Today, I am writing.

I find you beautiful. I find your dress absurd, but your face, your hair--nothing goes unobserved. I love your braid. I don't like your lip color. I like the way you shape your words with your mouth.

I like the pattern on the sole of your shoe, the volume of your voice, the look on your face while you think about the person on the other end of the cell phone call. I like your kid, though he needs a haircut, because his smile is stunning.

I especially like your boyfriend. But my character is looking for a woman. So I don't have much to do with your boyfriend; at least, I promise I won't say anything too nice about him.

I like the sound that's made when the mug you bumped hit the floor, and the nervousness that's in your voice while you clean it up and people walk in looking down at you.

I like the shrill condescension in your voice as you talk to the girl behind the counter as if her coworkers are her pets.

I like the look you gave your husband after he watches the girl in the tights, high boots, and tiny skirt walk by.

So if you want to talk to me, or show up in my vicinity, behave yourself. Because if you don't, your antics may stay forever as an extension of my imagination.