I think artichoke hearts are my favourite food. That’s not a lie. The way they crunch, and are not crunchy. They make the perfect topping on toast. White. Not brown. I just cannot stand brown toast.
It reminds me of my darkest secret. A secret I can’t say. A secret so dark I can’t even lie about it. I still feel sorry. I’m not sure how much is real and how much I’ve made up. I don’t know whether I used my hands, or my feet, or my arms, or legs, or my hair, or mouth. I don’t remember if I used anything at all. I don’t remember. There’s too many other lies in my head. It’s hard to say.
Still sorry, though.
“That’s what you need, right, right?”
Jerry was half right. The video was what I needed. The man in his hut of screens looked so excited I could hardly tell him otherwise. Yet, the picture was fuzzy and the figure, indiscernible. I told Jerry he’d done a great job. I asked him if he could send it to me and I left him my email address scribbled on a post-it note. On the way home I stopped at the Ghurka restaurant and ate dinner. It was empty and the staff watched me from the bar. I didn’t like it, being watched so closely. On the street I felt no better. I knew Jerry was watching me. Bug-eyed Jerry, the screen-man, the camera-man.
I hurried home.