Tanya Misses Wess

Tanya misses Wess. For now she lives off fleeting thoughts of kissing him and sitting in quiet with her headphones, wishing she could feel it. Her fingers play with the flash on the camera, opening and closing, pushing it back with a click as it pops up, just to press the button again. Restless mind and cold hands. She takes the fingers of her right hand and squeezes them gently, coaxing away the numb of cold with the flow of blood. She dizzies over a sugar headache, resting her head in her hands, cold fingers tracing up her temples as her eyes fall down to the desk. A faint tint of grey still lines the wood from her formerly marker-scribbled palms, clammy hands bleeding ink, from months ago. Still she tries in vain to warm her cold hands, putting them to her lips, as if her breath alone would be enough. But with every breath and fleeting moment of warmth, the cold comes as if none was there at all. She stuffs her hands into her pockets, fingering the bus pass, rolled up gum and mechanical pencils. A sigh. How much his voice alone would soothe the empty feeling growing inside her. Just his breath on the other side of the receiver, just the smallest of greeting, just the knowledge that she was on his mind. Fear, don't white her out of your life, don't forget you, is who she loves.
Cold and of little enthusiasm, she waits, for the return of smiles and laughter.