The first waiting

She is trim in jeans and a black sweater, and leans against the sill looking  out to the drab grey skies.  The rain pounds down against the window, suppressing our spirits.  She makes light talk, but I don’t listen.  My eyes are closed, and still I see her,  the hard wall supports my head the chair holds me as I sit half alive, half suspended waiting.

He is late and I made sure we arrived on time.   But until he comes,  hope remains.  It isn’t final, one big mistake with the hero’s escape.  She will hold my hand and we will take it, but instead I sit imprisoned in time,  fugue, between action and waking dream.

Although it pisses me off that he makes me wait, it comforts me.  No decisions, just silly little boy hopes of future halcyon days.  Soon enough pragmatic decisions, and forth to march, playing percentages, well if we do this, then 95% of the time all is well.  To  bad for the 5%,  it would never be me.

We listen to the rain, it is softer now, no words, just wind and sound.  I hear his hand on the door.

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