He woke with a gasp, sweating, the covers wrapped around his legs.
"Fuck" he muttered, climbing out of bed.
He paced the bedroom, running a hand across his jaw to find an unfamiliar and unpleasant scratch. He needed a shave. He wandered to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, stood in the dark garden until the night cold found his bones.
But the need to sleep evaded him.
He sat in his office, a largely uninspiring room lacking a womans touch, but it fit his needs. He opened his laptop and pulled a file closer. He'd sorted his half three days ago and now he should be dropping it at her house. But he wouldn't be. He couldn't. Perhaps he never would again.
He cleared his throat in a way that had become too practiced, ridding himself of that relentless strangling lump, and picked up his pen.
Two of his signatures would have to do.