Maybe Someday
His little black book. It was his prized possession, his true love. As far back as I could remember, he’d carry it with him wherever he went, sometimes taking a peek inside, a soft smirk dancing over his face. I used to be jealous of that book, pocket-sized with an elastic to hold it closed. The first time I met him at a cafe in Manhattan I saw him looking at me walking towards him as he was scribbling in the book.
