This isn't a new story. But I'm posting it anyway to remind me to finish some new ones.
Right For Each Other
He'll be home soon.
He'll walk in the door, throw his coat on the peg and the house will be full of him. Then it'll be a cup of tea and a book, maybe, or the paper - some time to think. And later there'll be a beer and a meal (who's cooking tonight?). And he'll talk about his day – who he saw, what he did - and how was your day? How are you? And it'll all be relaxed and happy, and there'll be togetherness and smiles. But it won't be right.
He's later than usual tonight. Drinks after work maybe, or some job so important he couldn't stop. Lost track of time. Dinner in the oven. He won't be long.
He's never very late, or rarely at least. I think he's got home after 9 o'clock twice in 18 months. He's a homebody type - a sitter and thinker rather than a chatter-at-the-bar. He'll be home soon.
He's not like other men. He's generous, friendly, likes children. He's not one for staying out all night or steaming home in a temper. No “what is it now, woman?”, no coldness, no tears. He's a good man. A passionate man. He sees people as they really are and he loves them, and they love him. Him and his warm eyes, and that little curl of hair at the back of his neck.
And he has a power over me like no-one else has ever had before. An overwhelming, electric power that fills my head and almost blocks out everything else. He's part of me. My darling, my saviour.
It's very late now. His train was delayed I expect. Or maybe he bumped into someone. An old friend he couldn't say no to. He's sitting there now, sneaking glances at his watch and wishing he could leave.
I love him. It's his eyes, I think. Or maybe his laugh. A soft, deep laugh, always sincere. And it's the way he smiles, and just the way he holds himself as he walks up the road.
It's really something, the way he walks. Graceful even, but just manly enough. He has the world on his mind, but still manages a sideways smile for anyone who passes.
He saves his special smiles for me. And he tells me more, with those smiles, than he thinks he does. He tells me all I need to know.
His wife thinks I'm deluded. “That mad bitch on the bench”. But I'm the one he needs, not her. And I know he understands. He just doesn't say so. He's scared to leave, doesn't want change, thinks he doesn't know me. But he does, he does. And I'll just wait here, to catch another glimpse of him, today like every day. And he'll smile, and we'll know. We're right for each other.
© Lucy Peacock 2011