TIME’S A-WASTING

A Short, Short Story, by Rebecca Buckley

 He is jogging towards me across the park bridge. My first thought is to duck out of sight, but it is too late, besides there is nowhere to duck. Sure, I could jump into the shallow edge of the lake and lie on the bottom of it, holding my breath till he passes by, but I can visualize myself lying there, head under, with my oversize buttocks sticking above the shallow water.  Not a pretty sight!

So here I am, forty pounds heavier, no makeup, wearing my shapeless sweats, dark hair stuffed up into a sock cap, ridiculous HD sun glasses covering half my face—you know, the ones advertised on TV for day and night-time driving, ugly suckers—and here he is, the tall, tan, handsome love of my life. 

I can pretend I don’t see him, could look off to the right at the Chicago cityscape and run right past him.  Maybe he won’t recognize me; it has been six months since we’ve seen or spoken to each other. 

I still can’t believe he’s the man I had trusted and loved since I was a teenager, who I had wanted to marry and wanted to be the father of my children. The man who would love and protect me for the rest of my life and we would grow old together and publish our fiftieth wedding anniversary photo in the Chicago Tribune, just like my parents and grandparents.  Not!

That Pollyanna, fairytale came to an abrupt end last summer when I was going to drive to Peoria for the weekend to see my brother’s new baby girl. I ended up leaving on Saturday instead of Friday. My job had kept me working late that Friday night; I went home at midnight, but didn’t bother to call Dave to tell him I was still in town.  I just wanted to get some sleep and head out early the next morning.  I’d just spent Thursday night with him anyway. 

We’d been sweethearts all through high school, through college, and for fifteen years we had worked for the same advertising firm, seeing each other every day.  We’d talked about living together, but decided to save that for marriage. Dave had felt that we should maintain our separate identities and apartments. We weren’t officially engaged, no ring on my finger, but it was assumed by all that we were to be married one day.  We were a thing.