After he made his entry in his journal, Barry took off his outfit, hung it up. He didn’t shower because he didn’t want to remove a molecule of that perfect Family Festival.
Alone, in bed, in the dark, he allowed himself a contrast to the Nobarry he had been.
It was a ritual, a kind of diuretic.
He would, alone, in his room, in bed, recall who he had been and contrast it with who he had become.
Last year, in his old town, he had not been invited to the Xmas Fete. Everyone knew he wasn’t invited. He shouldn’t have felt anything, but he had.
He had felt so unwanted, so alone.