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By (user no longer on site) OP
over a year ago
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……… fevered sleep, wasted sleep; desire burning through pulsing veins, her perfume on the cast-aside sheets, the impression of her head on the empty pillow and he tosses and turns, half tormented agony escapes through burning bitten lips……..Such are the dreams of Eros; when Morpheus has borrowed a soul for the hours of supposed serenity.
She had sat at the bar; simply dressed, so obviously alone yet embraced by the laughter of the sycophants she called colleagues, she rolled her eyes and saw him, he wasn’t a nothing and she wondered if he knew, or if he needed reminding. He ordered a drink; something simple, lacking both class and taste, his non-descript features and plain clothing offered no sight of his hand… she chewed the corner of her bottom lip, he wasn’t mysterious, there was no air, yet she swung round on her barstool and looked at him all the same
He was tired, interest in the mundane was weak, another this or that, why had he listened anyway; hotels, conferences, dull people with dull lives, freed from the monotony of their existence, had bunked of to the bar, and now the flirting would begin a handful of office indiscretions would be forged in the furnace of alcohol and misguided affection, the inevitable embarrassment in the morning, the walks of shame and the descent into office gossip had begun their dance….
She watched him smile to himself; oh so complex, every man is a poet to an admiring ear, every woman a muse.
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