The Waiting Room

The febrile dream was a constant.
She woke with the remains of a half-remembered passion sitting among the beads of sweat that adorned her top lip.
Pushing aside the damp sheets she found the bathroom mirror that told a story that was only half true.
The deep brown eyes still held the nights passion but the rest of her face had failed to catch it.

Water only made the fever worse, a cleansing that started a whole new day, but the same old story.

As the coffee stirred itself into action, small snapshots of the night invaded her thoughts.
"Was this really so difficult?"

The day passed in a heaviness of deft organisation, global conversation and more coffee. The business lay in her capable hands, nurtured by a life un-interrupted.
Lunch produced another perfume laden suit, crisply starched with facts and figures. Totally un-suitable.

The 'ping' indicating that supper was ready was wedged in between soft tones that calmed a client and shouting at Boston to get their finger out before the close of play.

Midnight sent the last of the emails hurtling into the ether and then it was time.

The ache often found her here before sleeping, the emptiness of her world, devoid of touch and grace and the intense pain of invisible love that covered the sheets in the waiting room.