Chin tucked into the soft woolly white scarf, shoulders clenched from the cold. Or at least, that's the easiest excuse. Slumped over, staring past the screen as pale fingers type what the mind can't - won't - acknowledge.
When the fingers stop, one hand impatiently taps while the other reaches up to let the heavy head rest. Hand open on forehead, just as a mother does to check her child's wellbeing. It's like this hand is checking, confirming what it already knows.
Outside, it's empty. Nothing but the whirring of the heater, the tapping of keys. Alone, but for the dark eyes staring from the curled-up dog's body.
Inside, there's noise. Lots of it. Not good noise, not confusing white noise, no. This is the sound of one clear voice with one message, the thing that can't - won't - be acknowledged. Until now.
Brings to mind more words: Ambition. Drive. Pull. Sight. Direction. But it's all wrong. It implies that leading is being done, that the all-important Control has been taken. Actually, the direction - it's all wrong. Being pulled and being driven are so different to pulling and driving. That's important.
Eyes. Windows to the soul, they say. No need to look to know what these reveal. Every so often they well up. No tears for months, none at all this year - until last night, and now they don't want to stop.
I think it's time.
No. Stop the uncertainty.
I know it's time... to change this picture of me.
This post is part of a new online writing group over at Gill's blog, Ink Paper Pen - head over to see the other participants in this week's exercise.