Portuguese Phonecalls

My jaw and throat are leaden with dread for a phone call I must make in the morning. I am not sure what it is I am so terrified about, but I feel it rising in my chest like bile. It's been so long since I felt like this (in fact, it brings back memories of starting work and the consecutive lull of not knowing), the air is thick with my thoughts. I tried forgetting all about it whilst driving home, there is nothing I can do until the morning, I will try my best to sort it out, it wasn't my fault. I think of The Devil Wears Prada and how she got the Harry Potter manuscript. I laugh at myself and wish desperately that we could buy direct from Selfridges. Part of me curses the fact the restaurant have left it so late. 

On my drive home, I throw down the windows and belt out bed of lies. It's cliched and pathetic and I don't care what anyone around me thinks, I escape them in the fast lane anyway. My hand traces the wind outside and I am ice cold but my heaters blare and keep my body warm. I try to block out the sound of my own thoughts whirling round my head. The wind hums madly and, still, I hear my voice, slow and soft like the whole world was quiet.

I need to remember that life is all about the small triumphs. 


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