Checkov and the cold feeling

Last night sleep came slowly, an illusion. The hours ticked darkly away, unaware of her too-warm body twisting itself to near-suffocation in the striped quilt. It had been a present from her sister, well-meant, but too warm for the temperate climate there. If anything, she was practical beyond compare, and couldn't bring herself to throw out the pinks and purples and beiges gracing the brushed cotton.

Today tiredness has settled like a blanket of snow upon her pasty face. An espresso and croissant eaten hastily on the train serve as breakfast; food her only friend on this grey journey into work. The day passes; that's all there is to say. At 12.45 she eats a brown-bread sandwich with tuna, drinks a polystyrene cup of lukewarm tea, tries to find something of interest in the view outside the window. The same hunched over pavement-walkers drift towards identikit cubicles where they spend the afternoon saving the world (on their terms). She brushes crumbs off the brown wool skirt and puts her glasses back on, the small gesture signifying that lunchtime is over.

On the train back to her tiny flat she reads a short story chronicling Chekhov's last days before his death from TB. On the night of his death, the doctor treating him sent down for Champagne. Three cut-crystal glasses and a bottle of Moet grace his passing from one life to the next. Dignity. Love. Grace. Respect.