The Wait

Everyday I sit and wait. Sit patiently on my old withered chair which even though has lost all its charm, is still my favourite. I sit and stare at the tree across the road, because thats the last place I saw him.

It was late that night, when he came to drop me home in his cherry colored, vintage car. He called it ‘vintage’ in an attempt to stop the other person from calling it what it actually was; rusty and broken-down.

He told me he’d call me the next day, and we’d meet. Maybe we’d go for a movie; there was a good one playing at the local theatre in town. I smiled and said, of course. I could feel the cool breeze around me, brushing my curls off my face. I hoped it didn’t rain right then. After all, I had spent the whole of the previous night preparing for just how I’d look when he left me home.

It was magical that night. Because all that I wanted to hear was said in that look of his, in his smile and in mine. The next day I waited near my phone, jumping at the slightest sound that came from that direction. But it didn’t ring. It grew dark, and I waited on my favourite chair, which then looked brand new and well kept. I waited for him, but he didn’t come.

I heard that same day that a young man had been stopped on the road by a gang of hoodlums. He had been stripped of his belonging, and beaten to death. He was driving an old, red car. I knew it was him.

Since then, I sit on my chair, and stare at the tree. Some part of me thinks maybe my eyes will act as a time machine, and I will be magically transported back to that moment when he smiled at me and I smiled back. Just maybe.

Then again, maybe its too early in our human existence for that to happen. Till it does, he makes me wait, and so I do. Just so that one day, I can feel the cool breeze against my curls. And when that time comes, I hope it rains.

Word Count: 373