Mathew Dorrell

Little Black Book

One day it appeared, conjured in mystery and draped in black. It sat on the desk in my office, as if some ghost had placed it there one day or night with a gleeful smirk, awaiting its discovery. Like a swathe of temptation washing over me, I found myself drawn to it; the thick, black texture of the front lightly resisting my grip. And I was happy to reciprocate, my forefinger and thumb clasping at the bottom right-hand corner and turning the page slowly. I recoiled somewhat to see there was something written on the front page. For Peter. Me?