My flatmate read a message over my shoulder and was entirely decent about it
- Looking for
- somebody who writes as though a stranger might read it, because one might
- Experience
- Five years, two arrangements, both quiet.
- Around
- the south, Amsterdam
In February my flatmate leaned over to look at something on my phone and read three lines of a conversation she was never meant to see. She was completely decent about it, said nothing at the time and one kind sentence a week later, and I got extremely lucky.
It has permanently changed how I write. I now assume everything I type will be read by somebody who was not meant to read it, because in a flat share with thin doors and shared tables that is not paranoia, it is a reasonable expectation. So I write things I would be content to have read. I do not send photographs. I ask that nobody sends me any.
Thirty three, the south, switch, five years in, two arrangements, both of them known to almost nobody.
The odd result is that I am a better correspondent for it. Writing as though a third person might read it strips out the performance, and what is left is what I actually mean. What I want is an ongoing arrangement, both directions in time, with somebody who takes discretion seriously without reading it as shame.
Not looking for anybody who wants photographs. Not looking to be added anywhere at all. Not looking for a person who thinks caution means there is somebody at home, because there is not.