She can't wait to crack me open, crease my pages back and scrawl coffee dates that will get scribbled out three times before they finally make their mind up.
I want to welcome the first lick of ink on the first day of the year.
She's already blasted HOLIDAY!! across certain weeks in a crude pen with ink the colour of bubble gum.
I want the events of the year to run naturally and inevitably onto my pages like a well-crafted symphony has themes and motifs.
She's already run out of space on the last page of last year's forward planner and the post-it notes make her social life look like we are in for a tarty carnival next year.
I want her to carry me in her jacket pocket, take me out on the train and add a few notes when we come to a stop.
She writes the shopping list in me as she bounds down the hill, her words like runaways.
I like to sit by the phone, ready, or on the corner of the desk that she never has the dignity to sit at.
She stuffs me in the shopping bag against the steamy heat of new baked bread, throws me into her cavernous work bag where I might never be seen again, or strains to close the instrument case when I lie next to the viciousness of strings stretched taut and menacing in the silent dark of adrenaline before the gig.
I like to have it all planned out, careful, thoughtful.
She likes it best when she doesn't know what day it is.