Why I must learn to love her lateness

I know I’ll be left waiting. Five past comes and goes. Ten past. I start constructing gentle rebukes. But what for? When she gets here I’ll shrug it off. No worries, I’ll say. Anything to show how I trust her. It’s not as if she means it. She’ll have been distracted by an email or something and she’ll dash all the way from the office once she realises the time.

We’ve had so many breathless reunions that way—it’s kind of fun so I shouldn’t complain. She’s always left things to the last minute, or a few minutes after that.

Fifteen minutes. Why can’t I just tell her I wished she’d be on time for once? So I decide—this time I’ll say something. I recheck my watch. Twenty past. A siren rings out in the distance…getting louder…closer…screaming past me…over the hill where her office is. Stopping somewhere out of sight. Twenty one past. I start to run.

 

2011-Richard Holt / small stories about love (smallstoriesaboutlove.wordpress.com)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s