Waiting

Nothing hurts more than waiting for someone.

Or making someone wait for you.

The heat has long dissipated.

Like dinner, I have grown cold.

I am no longer confident heat can be restored.

And if I can somehow be microwaved...

How long before I grow immune to it's fleeting warmth?

At any rate, the heat never lasts very long.

And I'm tired of being cold.

The clock seems to want to hide itself from my vision.

Perhaps my frequent glancing makes it shy.

That is understandable.

What with their uneven arms trying to hide a face that cannot be hidden.

"Honey, I'm home!" A chuckle follows.

I no longer find it very funny.

"Sorry, I'm late, I know." He removes a bottle of wine from the bench. "Work."

Work.

"My hours have been hectic. But it'll pay off. I know it will."

Do you?

He finally looks at me. "Come here, baby."

I don't move.

He doesn't wait.

Cold lips press against my neck; cold hands stroke beneath my breast.

"You didn't have to wait to eat."

Yes, I did.

His stubble chafes against my cheek; his hand slips inside my blouse.

His breath quickens. "We can eat later."

I feel the warmth of his breath on my ear.

"Okay."

The buckle of a belt clangs against the floor.

A hand lifts up my skirt.

Warmth. Hard warmth is rubbed against my mound.

My body clings to it.

My underwear is pushed to my ankles; the warmth is inside.

Will I get warmer the deeper it goes?

But it can only go so deep.

Too soon, the warmth is gone.

Fleeting.

His hands are icy; his breath is cool.

I discard my underwear and select a glass.

He sits at the table; I extend my glass to him.

Cold fingers begin to fill his plate.

I wait.

The wine is poured in his glass first, settling against the rim.

The last vestiges swirl sparingly in my own.

I sit. I drink.

Warmth blooms in my chest before growing numb.

He looks at me for a second time.

"I love you."

I don't reply.

He doesn't wait.

But I do.

For when I can return those words again.

And have them be true.

Perhaps that time will be soon.

Perhaps never.

Like dinner, I have grown cold.

The heat has long dissipated.

Nothing hurts more than waiting for someone.

Or making someone wait for you.

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