Her Melting Point

Hit the Sack

He texted her his itinerary two days later: he was flying in on Friday evening. To survive the wait, she loaded her diary with every task that she'd been postponing, or even just considered at some point of time in her life. It worked - except for at night, when she would turn, grumble, overthink, ruminate, and get annoyed with herself; cover and uncover; try to settle, and fail most miserably. Tartufo sighed and threw her judgemental looks, shaken out of his perfectly enjoyable slumber by her restless legs.

On Friday, she returned to the cottage after work - and started running around the house, moving things. Her faffing about couldn't be considered tidying up, since, if anything, she was creating even more chaos. They hadn't discussed whether they'd meet when he arrived; and if they did, where that would be - but she just couldn't stop. She was rolling the gizmo that collected cat fur on the upholstery of her sofa, when she had a sudden thought that a shower wouldn't go amiss, just in case; and she rushed to the bathroom. As she was shaving, scrubbing, and massaging, she lied to herself that she wasn't prepping her plump form for Alexander's consumption - and she paused and exhaled a long 'oh,' overwhelmed by the images of said consumption process.

Tartufo, for some bizarre reason, chose to accompany her every time she went to the bathroom these days, and napped on the small stool that she'd initially intended for clothes or a towel.

"No, no, focus," she muttered and grabbed a bar of Mrs. and Mrs. Tidmarsh's organic goat milk soap. "Talking, that's what you're going to be doing. Just talking."

The cat gave out its usual 'broop,' and Jackie peeked at him from behind the curtain.

"Are you planning to hide from him? He might be staying the night."

The cat, of course, ignored her; and Jackie went back to her polishing and moisturising efforts.

The question of an outfit arose; and twenty minutes Jackie was ready to cry. She was sitting on the bed, half of her wardrobe scattered on it; and she groaned and flopped backwards. Tartufo jumped onto the bed and started wandering around, spreading his fur, and occasionally clawing a random item.

"You could help instead, yeah?" she pointed out.

A text came to her phone; and she flailed in panic, imagining that he'd arrived earlier, and she'd be meeting him dressed in her trackies and a well-loved tee. She swiped across the screen. It was a reminder from her dentist in Bristol that her cleaning and check-up were overdue. Jackie sighed and accepted that her torture was continuing.

By nine, when he was expected to land, she was dressed in a modal loungewear set: wide trousers and a soft top; her hair was washed, dried, and somewhat styled, with a tinge of wax but no hairspray; so it was nice to touch, if so it happened that someone was willing to give it a go.

At nine thirty she was so antsy that Tartufo left her side and went to sleep in his new basket. By ten she'd had three cups of tea, crunched half a bag of mint humbugs, and attempted to read a book three times, only to realise that she'd picked up a different one each time.

She blamed the amount of brew that she'd downed, for almost missing his call. She stumbled out of the toilet, rushed to the coffee table, slammed her knee into it, and grabbed her mobile.

"Yes! Yes, I'm here! Hi!"

"Hi."

"Hi!" She ordered herself to lower the volume to a sane level. "Sorry, I was– I left my phone in another room, so I had to run. Have you landed?"

"Yeah. Waiting for my luggage."

There was a pause. Jackie considered stuffing something in her mouth to prevent her from blabbing out a myriad of questions, chatting, and inviting him.