Waiting
By the Window
I wait by the window. This is my favorite time of day. I await his arrival with bated breath; my heart pounds. His car pulls up, and he steps out. I heave a sigh; I love him, and now he's here with me.
I contemplate what I should say. I never know the right thing to say. He puts my mail in the box and leaves. I sigh again with more melancholy. Someday he will be mine. He'll be back tomorrow, and then, maybe I won't blow it. I've had a plan for years now, or it feels like I have. I'm tired of watching the love of my life out my window. I'm tired of ordering packages just so he'll come to my door, and I can actually speak to his face and touch his hand.
Maybe- I hope beyond hope- he actually feels the way I do. Maybe he longs to come inside. Sometimes I think he sees me in my window, and maybe, just maybe he wishes for me, too. He certainly seems stuck in a rut. He's a strong man, and he'd never show it. He grins and bears his life such as it is. If he desires for more, he refuses to let it show. However, I watch him closely, I know him, and I know his subtleties. Certain quirks of the face and gestures and postures of the body tell me that he could do better and he knows it.
That's good enough for me. Tomorrow I will leave him a note in my mailbox and erect the little, red flag. I will wait by my window more anxious than ever. I will wait for my love. He will discover my note, and then, he will know. Then, I'm almost sure that he will realize what's been missing from his life. I am almost convinced that he will look up and see his love in the window, and that he will run inside.
Together we won't have to worry about a thing because love conquers all. He can forget how monotonous his life has become, and he can gradually abandon such pain and bore. I won't have to be afraid to leave my house anymore because I know wherever I go he'll go with me. This is how love works; it's been a long time since anyone loved me, but, trust me, I do remember how it should be.
A new day has dawned, and I have just finished writing the very note that will seal our fates and change our lives. I place it in the mailbox accordingly, and I assume the postition. An hour or two passes, and I scarcely move.
Now he's here! My heart is pounding in my throat. My breath catches, and I feel light-headed and strangely tingley. He examines the note and contemplates opening it and reading it right then and there. I hope he does. I practically tell him to. He's opened it! I can't quite tell what he thinks of it. He doesn't want me to know, I guess; he probably knows he's got the usual audience. Maybe I shouldn't watch him; maybe I make him too nervous or embarassed or ashamed or... but I simply have to watch him.
There, now he has heard me profess my love. I have offered him my whole life; we could stay here together or run away together, whatever he chooses. He mulls it over. He lays my note in his seat and puts my mail in the box.
I can tell he wants to look up at me. He's fighting his desires. Now comes the part where he gives in, and we lock eyes, and he runs inside to me passionately.
This has not happened, but I wait because I know him. I know his insecurities. I know sometimes how hard it is for him to show his true feelings; sometimes I think he doesn't want to feel them at all. I can't possibly be wrong; I know this man, and this plan was perfect.
He gets into his car. It's not too late; I can tell he's still thinking. He's so scared, I can tell. He's scared to face feelings so intense. I wait for him to inevitably abandon his post-delivery car and by extension his life as he ever knew it. He drives away...
He'll be back.
I contemplate what I should say. I never know the right thing to say. He puts my mail in the box and leaves. I sigh again with more melancholy. Someday he will be mine. He'll be back tomorrow, and then, maybe I won't blow it. I've had a plan for years now, or it feels like I have. I'm tired of watching the love of my life out my window. I'm tired of ordering packages just so he'll come to my door, and I can actually speak to his face and touch his hand.
Maybe- I hope beyond hope- he actually feels the way I do. Maybe he longs to come inside. Sometimes I think he sees me in my window, and maybe, just maybe he wishes for me, too. He certainly seems stuck in a rut. He's a strong man, and he'd never show it. He grins and bears his life such as it is. If he desires for more, he refuses to let it show. However, I watch him closely, I know him, and I know his subtleties. Certain quirks of the face and gestures and postures of the body tell me that he could do better and he knows it.
That's good enough for me. Tomorrow I will leave him a note in my mailbox and erect the little, red flag. I will wait by my window more anxious than ever. I will wait for my love. He will discover my note, and then, he will know. Then, I'm almost sure that he will realize what's been missing from his life. I am almost convinced that he will look up and see his love in the window, and that he will run inside.
Together we won't have to worry about a thing because love conquers all. He can forget how monotonous his life has become, and he can gradually abandon such pain and bore. I won't have to be afraid to leave my house anymore because I know wherever I go he'll go with me. This is how love works; it's been a long time since anyone loved me, but, trust me, I do remember how it should be.
A new day has dawned, and I have just finished writing the very note that will seal our fates and change our lives. I place it in the mailbox accordingly, and I assume the postition. An hour or two passes, and I scarcely move.
Now he's here! My heart is pounding in my throat. My breath catches, and I feel light-headed and strangely tingley. He examines the note and contemplates opening it and reading it right then and there. I hope he does. I practically tell him to. He's opened it! I can't quite tell what he thinks of it. He doesn't want me to know, I guess; he probably knows he's got the usual audience. Maybe I shouldn't watch him; maybe I make him too nervous or embarassed or ashamed or... but I simply have to watch him.
There, now he has heard me profess my love. I have offered him my whole life; we could stay here together or run away together, whatever he chooses. He mulls it over. He lays my note in his seat and puts my mail in the box.
I can tell he wants to look up at me. He's fighting his desires. Now comes the part where he gives in, and we lock eyes, and he runs inside to me passionately.
This has not happened, but I wait because I know him. I know his insecurities. I know sometimes how hard it is for him to show his true feelings; sometimes I think he doesn't want to feel them at all. I can't possibly be wrong; I know this man, and this plan was perfect.
He gets into his car. It's not too late; I can tell he's still thinking. He's so scared, I can tell. He's scared to face feelings so intense. I wait for him to inevitably abandon his post-delivery car and by extension his life as he ever knew it. He drives away...
He'll be back.