A name I will not write

I am going to call him E. He knows what I am and I know what he is, and neither of us has said it in words, which turns out to be the way it is done here. You find each other by the things you do not say. By where your eyes go and do not go. By the fact that he also sits where he can see the door.

We walked from Douglas Road to the stadium and back today, in the heat, for no reason, talking about football and his uncle's shop and nothing. Two men walking. Nobody looked. I felt like I had stolen something.

I am not writing his name because this notebook could be found and because I have heard what happens. A boy from Nekede, last year. Everyone knows the story and nobody says it in full. I know enough. So: E. If you ever read this, E., I hope you are somewhere you can walk with whoever you like.

I have not written the sentence yet. But I think I could say it to him. That is new. That is the whole entry, really. There is one person.