Fantasy and Pain

With watery eyes she was breathing into her feast, laying her head on her hand, looking down at the table.  When would the tears roll down?  Who would witness?  Who would care?
The cafe was somewhat deserted.  There were two elderly ladies sitting by the window chatting in low voices over their still steaming cups of coffee.  There was a college boy at a middle table with his head buried in his mac book and white earpieces in ears, a half eaten sandwich by his papers, isolated from the world around him.  And a middle-aged guy in a table toward the back, close to where she was sitting, but deep in his papers, sipping his large cup of coffee.  Who would care she thought.
Her mocha was completely cold, steam-less, tasteless.
She had just come here to take refuge from her tiring and endless search.  She needed to just pause.
The night before she was walking around the house.  Searching.  Looking for all the signs.  Repeating all the memories.
The house was quiet except for the low noise of the TV from the other room.
There was no life to keep her excited, there was no talk except all that were in her head.
She sat down on the bed. Closed her eyes and decided to calm herself down.  But with every passing moment, with every deeper breath, a new image would pop up, like "an unexpected song"; then the image would get more clear, with all the details, all the colors, all the smells even; the whole idea got more real ... but with the next breath it become unreachable, painful.
She finally gave up on calm.  Lay down, and thankfully slept.  Dreamed.
She was now sitting in the cafe.  Breathing in her feast.  Deep in her fantasy.  As still as the steam-less mocha in front of her.