Can't Sleep

...so of course, when I can't sleep, I type something up of dubious quality and post it here. Hurrah!

This is actually the continuation of a story which I had started some time ago - I think I posted the first half of it on here but I can't be bothered to go dig it up.

She wakes to a brand new day, the horizon pregnant with the sun.
This is the day.
This is her day.
She goes about her daily tasks, hoping to calm her nerves. Starts the coffee machine. Steps outside, grabs her paper. Pulls her favorite mug off the dish rack. Sugar, one flattened teaspoon. No milk, no cream. Pours, thrusting her face into the rising aroma, losing herself in the moment, in the sheer joy of sensation, of stimulation, of feeling alive.
And yet she cannot escape the feeling, that feeling, the gnawing in her stomach and in her mind that will not stop, that cannot stop, that is slowly devouring her piece by piece and second by second.
This is the day she says goodbye.
This is the day she says hello.
Calm. Calm. Must stay calm. She flicks through the paper, not really reading any of the stories, and pauses on the horoscope page, something she never pays attention to, seeking - what? Guidance? Advice? Justification? She is the scorpion, the eagle, the phoenix; destined to be reborn time and time again, a destiny which she feels looming once more.
But. But. But.
Always buts. No ifs ands or buts, says the cliche, but no-one ever really brings up ifs or ands. Only buts. She knows what is right to do, what she has wanted to do, what he has been daring him to do.
But.
Isn't it funny how the mind works against us in so many ways; knows our fears, our weaknesses, the things that send us to sleep exhausted from tears.
You'll never meet another.
He can change.
You love him.
Life is rarely neat and tidy; it is a neverending mess that stains your mind and body. Here is where your father spilled. There is where your mother dripped. And there he is; splashed on the walls, on the furniture, on the ceilings - a childish scrawl, a ramble of spent passion. If only he could be scraped away. If only it were so easy. She closes her eyes and replays the conversation in her head, the conversation she has had dreams and nightmares about for weeks.
I don't know what I want.
You don't know what you want.
We don't have anything in common.
They never had anything in common, she remembers. It was convenient, he was nice, she was nice, everything was nice. Days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years and neither of them knew exactly how it happened but it did.
She pours another coffee, as she has every morning for as far back as she can remember. Brings it back to the bedroom, to the waiting shadowy lump.
"Brad?"
Now.
"Brad, honey?"
Nownownow.
"Mmmmm?"
"...coffee..."
She's glad he's still asleep; it keeps him from seeing her screaming, begging, pleading. But then, he hasn't noticed it all year; why would today be any different?

I think when I had originally started this I had actually intended for her to go through with it. Oh well.