We passed each other handwritten notes, even when sat beside each other at the dinner table. I preferred it this way because we never had to raise our voices. If there was any confusion, it was easier to throw the piece of paper away – or sometimes I would hide it in your food. In all honesty, every note was a love note. When it was simple or nasty or boring, it was always loving (is there such a thing as too loving?). I kept each confession folded tight and stuffed in old tobacco tins. I know not to read them again.