A single line, that’s all it was, written on the page like it was a hastily scrawled note to a partner, when you’d say something like ‘Just gone out to the shops’.

However, this was something that had been told to me in confidence, and it was a line so singularly odd that I had written it down, and then carelessly left it on a table in the café. 

I never normally do this, I treat my client notes meticulously and am very military at filing them in the proper place. My colleagues half joke that I have some kind of OCD, but that’s just because I am super organised, and my life is neat and orderly – it’s normal.

I went back to retrieve the note, but of course it wasn’t there. It was echoing in my head though, the lines getting bigger each time I thought about it, the handwriting growing like ivy, spreading alarmingly, I could feel my pulse rising.

“I left it here, stupidly’ I laughed to the waiter, ‘Did you see it? Perhaps pick it up and put it in the bin? It really wasn’t all that important, but I just need to know where it went.”

He gave me at insouciant shrug. Clearly he wasn’t interested in helping me. “I’ve really no idea…” he said, waving his hand and walking away.

I felt the urge to swear. Also something I never do. But, if I am honest, just every now and then, it’s like the words want to leap out and it takes all my self-possession to hold them in.

Single words. Why are they so important? Rattled. Perturbed. Culpable. This one line might sink my whole career, if not my whole stupid life, how could this have happened?

The waiter was now over at a table flirting with two young, attractive, women. They were laughing, he was at ease. His stance like Dionysus, the master of those he serves. He looked back over at me, caught my eye.

“Fuck – I know he’s read it,” and the thought sent a chill to my core.