Torrents

mmmm...
Playing on my mind (thoughts of you) on springs, at dawn, on me, in love.

The early light filters through thick winter curtains, painting your face in gold. I know every line, every shadow, as intimately as I know my own skin. For the next 6 months, the alarm on the nightstand will shatter this peace, pulling us from our warm, shared moments into the rush of the day.

But soon, it will be quiet for good. Soon, we'll wake up like this every day, with no other schedule but our own. I nestle deeper under the covers, warm from sleep, limbs slow and lazy. My eyes drift to your lips. They catch the light, the soft curve of the smile you wear even in dreams. I read our story there on every line, every curve, in the weight of your hand on my thigh... A new chapter begins with quiet breath and soft skin. We have finally arrived here, Old Love our last great adventure, and we made it. So I rest my head back, smiling to myself, a secret smile for a secret joy, and welcome the new dawn…our retirement, dawn not dusk.

7:40 a.m. Chaos.

I’m late. Again.

I drove like a car thief one eye on the clock, the other on the wet roads and I’m still behind. It’s going to be a long  day.

Note to self:
 "Avoid lengthy morning showers."
"Slick roads make for dodgy turns."
"Crazy suburban drivers are scarier in wet weather."
"Never take on a taxi!"
It is pouring out; the torrent turns tar to water. I dash through the parking lot, glad I'm wearing my hair in a ponytail and my long black leather boots that make me look like a traffic cop.  I curse as my pencil skirt clings to my bottom: "should've worn my raincoat!"

Quick “good mornings.” Beeline to my desk. Log in.
Busy bee mode.
Emails flood in.

Telltale signs show on my face, in secret smiles on playful pouty lips, in eyes narrowed and naughty.
Telltale signs can be heard in my voice, in soft sighs and gentle whispers; deep breaths mimicking pleasure.
I tackle the business that demands attention, fingers swift over keyboard and keypads, conversations brief and to the point; no time for small talk today.
I glide around the office as if on a cloud, winding in and out.
Here, but not here; getting things done on auto-pilot.

9:00 a.m. Silence.

The team’s out. I’m holding the fort.

The hush descends like a prayer. The office, usually buzzing, now breathes in slow rhythm. The aircon hums its lullaby. Even the machines seem to know:
Let her have this moment.

I do love my job.
But right now, I love the stillness more.

And then, coffee calls.

Latte?
No.
Black. Bitter. Hot. Just how he likes his. Just how I like mine today.

I head back holding the hot mug with both hands, cupping it firmly, taking the dark bitter liquid to sweet lips, swollen & marked by rough love.

The rain is making art on the windows, streaks and rivulets like brushstrokes. I trace one with my finger, slowly. Down. All the way down. I close my eyes.

“Down,” you once said, fingers following curves, paths known by heart.

“All the way down,” I whispered back.

A small phrase.
A private memory.
A spell cast on an ordinary, rainy morning.

10:45 a.m. Still thinking of you.

I reached for the office phone, that old beige relic. It feels oddly intimate, more deliberate somehow.

“Hi,” I say, soft, like a secret.

You know it’s me. I hear the smile in your voice.

“Busy?” I ask.

“Yeah,” you say, low and gravelly.

“What time? One? One-thirty?”

“One,” I reply.

“Don’t think I can wait that long.”

You chuckle. That beautiful, honey-dipped sound. It wraps around me like a warm hug.

“It’s gonna be a long day, honey.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“So I’ll let you get back to it.”

There’s a pause. And then:

“Yeah. But an even longer night.”

I smile.

Because I know.

You always keep your promises.

You have, for 35 years.