Tomorrow

He’ll be here tomorrow.  In the early morning, he’ll make the tedious 22 mile trek from his house.   He’ll complain about the fact he’s missing work for this.   He’ll show up three minutes early or three minutes late.  He’ll stare at me with those dark, piercing eyes until the tension becomes too uncomfortable for one of us.  He may or may not bring coffee.  Most likely, he won’t.  I’ll make a snarky comment about his punctuality and his failure to remember the two creams and the two raw sugars.  I’ll open the door, real dramatically, like it’s an inconvenience to walk out and give him a hug.  I’ll make one of the boys call me beautiful in front of him.   I’ll walk past him four times…of which, only three times he will actually look at me.  I’ll probably stop and sit with him for a little while.  I’ll ask about work and about his kid and talk shit about mutual acquaintances.  That’ll last about three minutes.  After that, I’ll have to go do something more pressing. 

Then I’ll go back to my business, face flushed and distracted.  My girlfriends will walk by and make idle conversation to see if I’m OK, without actually asking if I’m OK.  Within the hour it will all be over.  And I’ll walk him out to the car with something for him to drop off to someone at work.  I’ll look into the trees and hug him again.  Because who knows when he'll be back.  So, I will hold him a second or two longer than I should.  Then he’ll be gone.  Again.  I’ll be somber for a while.  And I’ll wonder out loud why he won’t ever love me.  Or at least why he won’t love me out loud.  I’ll tell my bestie at lunch that he’s really deep, he’s just a loner. A line she’s heard entirely more than she would like to remember.  A line she has gotten really good at not rolling her eyes at.  Then we’ll walk back to reality and tomorrow will suddenly turn into today and I’ll go back about my life.  Until the next time I have to wait for tomorrow.