A long night ahead

The meeting was secretly heralded as the fight of giants. A fight to the finish. One in which I was to be crucified.

You came with a full force, a team of loyalists, on whose behalf you would slay me.

There you sat, less than a foot away from me, surrounded by your cheerleaders. There was I, a paltry team of two to support me, neither of whom I could count on. You were the clear winner. Even before it started.

And yet, here I am. Meeting over, unharmed. Or so it seems.

You didn't raise a finger of accusation. I stared in surprise at you, not more than a foot away. Your polished manner didn't betray the contempt you have always shown me in the past. Your eyes were carefully neutral, your manner painstakingly convivial.

I didn't get it. Wasn't this supposed to be a fight to the finish? Why then did you let me go?

Is that why I have lain awake night after night since then? Grateful to have been spared and wondering why? If so, why am I not analysing the meeting more thoroughly for clues and hidden moves? Knowing what I know of you, a suave politician, who has it in for me.

Instead, night after night since then, all that I can see is the handsome face so close to mine that day. The perfectly sculpted nose, the lips that I almost reached out to explore with the tips of my fingers. The way your eyes wandered to the hoops in my ears. The way you mastered your people's dissent against me with ease.

How did a meeting of clashes turned into nights of longing?