The wait is always the same. Don't get me wrong. For an impatient girl, I enjoy waiting. The nothing-to-do ness of the wait has a very calming effect on me. My mind rushes on with images of what can be. I practise imaginary conversations which in a few minutes or so may come to fruit. The drama at the end of the wait, especially if of a romantic nature, always fulfills its prophecy. The one waiting, the Waiter, is a step ahead of course. She has come on time and encountered stray gazes. She can now set the stage. The legs are perfectly folded, the hair tucked behind her ear, the half-finished cigarette between her pink-tipped fingers perfectly poised over the fresh ash-tray. If the wait is longer than a few minutes, her fingers now entwine the crook of a tea cup. The moment's arrived for the waitee has too. Is she facing the doorway or did she have it in her to expose her back to the door and win at the game of not caring. If she has seen him come in, catching his gaze and holding it, with or without a smile, is a good way to begin an episode. However, waiting for him to approach her from behind has its perks. To keep her neck open to prey, albeit, the romantic kinds, takes courage and shows her lack of fear of the future, of the unknown and her non-chalance.
The uninnitiated to the wait, resort to a book. The feiging hasn't been mastered yet. Pitying glances from fellow revelleres worry them still. The mind has not been honed to accept the fatality of a wait.
The wait. An oasis of me-time of nothingness in between a day filled with moments of purposefulness for others. Next time you are awaiting, treat yourself to the glorious drama of it. Spectate yourself. Order a cup of tea, light that cigarette, take a deep breath and wait with me.
1 comment:
VERY VERY NICE!
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