Notebook on the fridge

I put the notebook on top of the fridge so I couldn't see it from the bed. It's full of things I'm pretending I haven't decided. The Pryce line. The four Yara drafts I wrote on the back of a Co-op receipt. Dee's name and a number I haven't dialled. I keep asking the notebook to shut up from across the kitchen and it keeps its mouth shut, which is exactly my move, so fair play.

I tested the Pryce line at the Bill Murray. Went on fourth. Twenty comics, three civilians, the Crouch End bloke at the back making a face I couldn't read. The line landed half-way. You know the difference. A couple of comics nodded, which is comics for I see what you did and I'm choosing not to applaud. One civilian laughed at the wrong beat and I had to breathe through the rest. Half-win. I wrote it to hurt Pryce and I can tell because it only works if I imagine his face, which means it's his and mine at once, which means it's probably honest, which means I should kill it. I probably won't.

The four Yara drafts. One was funny. One was angry. One was a question. The fourth tried to be small and ordinary — that's the one that scared me most because it might have been the truest and truest is where I don't go. I deleted them all. I could've sent any of them. I deleted them instead. Same outcome as not trying, except now I've tried twice in one week and the second time was four versions of the same lie.