Waiting for you is a prompt from a writing workshop, and here are two short responses
Micro-flash 1
The window darkens. The streetlamps cast their white circles. I watch, in hope more than expectation.
It’s been a year. Today – tonight – you left the house. Ran into that same darkness.
The slam of the door still echoes in my broken heart.
Flash 2
I pass the time waiting for you watching the arrival of others. They come through the sliding glass doors, checking phones, hoisting backpacks, tightening coats against the frosty chill, dragging wheeled suitcases. Some head purposefully away, others – most – peer around, searching the dusk of the carpark.
There are waves, smiles. Here is a mother greeting her teenage daughter with hugs as if it has been some time since they were together. The boot is opened, the case hauled in. Home from university for the holiday? There is a father ushering a son towards the car, leaving him to stow his own baggage. They open and close doors, chat or silently get on with the business of leaving. Engines growl into life, headlights pierce the gloom, cars nose into the departing traffic.
My eyes flick from the greeters and the greetees, stay fixed on the sliding doors. I wait for you until the last passenger slips through, hesitates, and walks left, towards the crossing lights.
And then I wait for you some more. The next train arrives, and the next.
I pass the time watching the arrivals, watching the reunions. Remembering.
Follow the writing prompt on Facebook.
Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here.
WAITING FOR YOU
Where on earth had you gone? I was waiting for you in the supermarket car park, but no sign of you.
You had told me to go to the car and you would be along as soon as you had finished the shopping.
That was an hour ago – and still no sign of you.
The day was warming rapidly and supermarket car parks are no fun in summer when the sun is relentlessly beating down.
Despite the escalating heat, I had resisted starting the car and turning on the air conditioning.
Finally, in total frustration, I headed back to the supermarket.
No sign of you despite extensive searching of the aisles.
I collared one of the workers and began describing you.
“Mid-twenties, pretty, blond hair, good figure, hard to miss,” I explained.
The worker shrugged.
“Sorry, haven’t seen her. But there was an incident about an hour ago and the manager had to intervene.”
“Incident? What incident?” I inquired.
“Some young woman was caught shoplifting and the police were called,” was all he could tell me.
Given your mysterious disappearance, it must be you, I thought. But why would you shoplift? It was not as if you didn’t have plenty of money to pay for the purchases.
I headed to the manager’s office to try and obtain a reasonable explanation.
Yes, he said, there was a young woman here earlier. And, yes, she had been caught shoplifting and taken to the nearest police station.
I went back out to the car park and headed for the local cop shop. Sure enough, there you were. Detained for questioning and looking very guilty.
What were you thinking, I demanded, when the police allowed me to see you.
You burst into tears.
“I know,” you said. “I had plenty of money to pay for the items. However, I just wanted to see if I could get away without paying. Bit of a challenge really. And I told the manager it was all a joke and I was happy to pay.
“However, he had no sense of humour – and now, here I am.” More tears.
“Yes, you are, you stupid girl, and let’s just hope I can somehow get you out of this without them charging you.”
With that I headed for the front desk.
“Guess we can let her go, Inspector, if you are prepared to vouch for her,” the desk sergeant said with a smile.
Love the anxious expectancy in both pieces
Thank you.