They ignored me; I have long since ceased to initiate any conversation with them.
I hung my navy jerkin on the back of my chair and switched on my computer.
I had not slept well again the previous evening, being somewhat unsettled by my conversation with Mummy.
I decided to make a refreshing cup of tea before I got started.
I have my own mug and spoon, which I keep in my desk drawer for hygiene reasons.
My colleagues think this strange, or at least I assume so from their reactions,
and yet they are happy to drink from filthy vessels, washed carelessly by unknown hands.
I cannot even countenance the notion of inserting a teaspoon, licked and sucked by a stranger barely an hour beforehand, into a hot beverage.
Filthy. I stood at the sink while I waited for the kettle to boil, trying not to listen to their conversation.
I gave my little teapot another hot rinse, just to be sure, and drifted into pleasurable thoughts, thoughts of him.
I wondered what he was doing at this very moment—writing a song, perhaps? Or would he still be asleep?
I wondered what his handsome face would look like in repose.
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