There he goes again, trying to invade my memories.

I wonder, at times, if there is any benefit whatsoever to the effort I put into keeping my life private.

I suppose it is a vain hope considering I work with spies. Especially him.


Sometimes I wish he would just fulfill his name and leave me alone.

If only he were content to actually be…solo.

He isn't.

I go through the day without any inconveniences to my privacy until he comes along.

He has questions.

Worse than that, he has instincts.

Napoleon's instincts are very good, and his ability to ferret out an answer by discerning a look or gesture is irritatingly fine-tuned.

I imagine he honed these skills on the women in his life.

It would be preferable, for my purposes, if he would continue to limit them to the ladies and his professional needs.

It could be that the two cross over periodically.

I would prefer that he leave me alone.

I don't want to go backwards.

I cannot.

It is a pointless exercise in futility to revisit what has already been.


This moment.

That is all I have.

He thinks there is more, but there is not.

There is nothing I have left behind that can be resurrected and given life.

What is the point of remembering it then?

What is the point of sharing it with…him?

Why does he care?

Why does it bother me so?

I wish he would leave me alone.