The crimson before the job

I used to write at a kitchen table that was not mine. The lip went on first — always — because if I looked finished I could pretend the night was a choice. Nobody at Gravitrek Headquarters had my name yet. Nole Alset was a rumour in a briefing I was not invited to. I wrote anyway. That is the whole point of a diary: it does not wait for a posting.

The crimson is not for the camera. Under bad light it is the only thing I can still find on my own face. I kept the tube in a pocket then. I keep it in a pocket now.