I know that she is waiting for my e-mail or my text. She keeps her mobile phone in the front pocket of her jeans. She can feel its shape, hard and silent. She wills it to ring.
Her laptop is switched on. Every now and then the fan whirrs softly. She can just hear it beneath the sound of the TV programme that she is not really watching. She is desperate for the message alert tone.
She tells herself that I wil be in touch. And then in the same moment is filled by the certainty that I will not.
She tries to convince herself that I would not, could not desert her.
