Sorry I missed it.
Dear Dermot.
I wonder if he still remembers our meeting.......what am I saying?
Of course he does.
He lies awake, night after night, twisting and turning, watching the minutes edge slowly by on the clock on his bedside cabinet. Listening from his Dockside penthouse to the sounds of the river and the city.
Sometimes he gets up from his twisted bedding, pulls a towelling robe loosely about his well honed, naked torso, and stands on his balcony looking down on the passing river traffic.
How can they go on, as if nothing has happened, when his world has been turned upside down?
It has been three long months since that fateful day. Time does not soften the longing, or fill the emptiness. He thinks only of what could have been.
Oh, that he could turn back the clock to that very instant when his fingers brushed sensually against hers!
Even now, if he thinks of that moment he can still feel that jolt of electricity course through him. Through his very substance.
"Why, why?" he calls out into the lonely night. "Why did I not hold on to that delicate hand, kiss those fingers, beg her to stay? Why did I let her go?"
Poor Dermot.
Such anguish, and all in vain.
It is not meant to be.
My heart belongs to another.
The misery of unrequieted love.
