You wake up with a start on a mattress sitting on the floor of a horribly modest apartment. There is a shuffle in the next room, and the slide of wood on its track as you push up from black bedsheets, tangling fingers through your hair.
Suddenly, a panic washes over you. You reach for a robe with magnolias gracing the corner -- some kitschy piece of shit that was bought for you in Chinatown by some other man -- and you walk with deliberate steps into the hallway that the noises had issues from.
"What are you doing?" Your voice is strained, though not enitrely impatient.
"Nothing--" A broad back turns, his face now visible to you. He seems genuinely innocent, naive of what he's done.
"Fucking give me that." You stalk forward, snatching the notebook from his hands.
"What's the probl--"
"The problem is, just because it's written doesn't mean it's something for you to read."
"It's not a diary..."
"That's irrelevant; you shouldn't be going through people's shit. Get out."
"Hey, I didn't mean anything by it." His hands raise in surrender. He could have thought you had something. If that was the case, he was very mistaken.