out of joint

I get in late, tired, and pour myself some port. A long day. Speeches, remembrance, too much finger food and white wine. Story in plenty, a surfeit of tales. One friend telling how a mysterious fever had come upon him and held him in its pinching grip for days, only to break suddenly as he entered the hall, leaving him soaked with sweat but able to speak. I looked at him with a wild eye, ready to see blood spout from his ears, to watch him burst his white shirt with grief. He looked wry and reached for the wine.

Back at my desk, I seem to have left a book open, the last page read held open with a bottle of painkillers resting lightly in the spine. Seven of my ten roses have been lop-headed for days already. The white one is still in glorious bloom, shining in sympathy with the moon outside.