Despite her best efforts and the expensive bottle of wine breathing on the nightstand, I was a complete no-show. It’s a special kind of ego death when the spirit is willing but the flesh is basically a cooked noodle. She eventually sat back, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and looked at me—not with anger, but with a sort of clinical pity that felt even worse.
"...The lighting in the hotel room was a warm, amber glow—the kind specifically designed to make everything look better than it is. And she did look good. She had that poise you only get with experience, a 'intellectual beauty' as the profile said, with a confidence that made the air feel thick. But my body wasn't getting the memo. Despite her best efforts and the expensive bottle
'Is it the pressure?' she asked, her voice surprisingly soft. But my body wasn't getting the memo
'I think it’s the everything,' I muttered, staring at the ceiling. 'The work week, the expectations, the fact that I’ve been staring at a spreadsheet for twelve hours a day. My brain hasn’t left the office even if I have.' 'The work week
