I have a book of lists where I write my own secret information between the lines. My words appear as beige rivulets waving under the lines of text.

I offer to read aloud to my husband, but I don’t want him to see what I’ve written. He might find out about my true love, and the fact that I might be pregnant.

One of my lists is about time. It’s time to swim. As I read to my husband, the words in the book shift to a scene at a swimming pool. People walk around wearing old-fashioned, black bathing suits.