There’s your public face. There’s also the face you show to those close to you. And there’s your third face, that you think only you know.
His leather jacket has a small rip, top right arm. A minor accident, barbed wire. Most people don’t notice, but she does.
She sees, she’s not nosey. She’s curious, not intrusive. It’s her background, privacy matters.
Homes and castles and all that.
It’s his only jacket, a time-weathered brown. For her, it’s life engrained. For him, it’s the way it is. They know each other well, they think. Like everyone, they’ve limits.
He doesn’t know about the notches on her bed posts. ‘Left for geezers, right for girls’. She writes a silent song for every one but only plays them to herself.
She doesn’t know what he can never forget. He believes no-one’s left, there’s nobody to tell. He rarely says a word to anyone but writes a tear-drop distorted diary.
Which leaves me, the listener. An accidental guard, by chance. Storing up secrets, good reasons or bad.
Locks and keys and all that.
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