Day 18: Waiting

Day 18—

Today's task was to write about waiting. Because I'd eventually like to draft a work of fiction, I decided it was a good time for me to explore a third-person narrative voice. Below, you'll find three scenes that explore different emotions that can come from waiting and different purposes for the wait.

Moments of waiting

Waiting to turn left . . .

1. She takes her foot off the gas and creeps out into the street, craning her neck to see if a car is heading west. It can be so hard to see around that darn bush. The cars head east in a steady stream. She sighs. These moments can feel like forever. Why hasn’t anyone felt it would be a good idea to install a stoplight with a left turn signal right here? She checks her rearview mirror. “No one is behind me,” she says. “I have plenty of time.” She creeps out a little further, hoping for a break in the traffic. Her anxiety is rising. “Come on,” she mumbles. Headlights appear in her rearview mirror. This is the part she hates. Now, it isn’t just her waiting for a space; someone behind her is waiting to take her place at the seam of the street where the parking lot meets the traffic. If she sees even a slight break in traffic, she’s putting her foot on the gas and going for it. “Clear heading east,” she tells herself, “I’ll just gun it as soon as this black car goes by.” The black car comes and goes, and she is too anxious to step on the gas and go. “I am a fool!” she says. She can feel the car behind her breathing down her neck. Ok, after this red car, she tells herself.

Waiting as respite . . .

2. As she swings the door to the dentist’s office open, she is suddenly aware of how loud and chaotic the rest of her day has been. A nature sounds soundtrack featuring the sounds of a waterfall plays in the front lobby, and a video of a crackling fire sizzles and pops on a wall-mounted flat-screen television. It’s the perfect blend of peace and nonsense. She approaches the woman in the light blue blouse who sits behind the desk melodically clicking the keyboard.

“Checking in?” The woman asks softly.

“Yes,” she answers. “Melanie Drake.”

“Thank you, Melanie,” The woman replies. “I’ll let April know you’re here. Would you like a bottle of water while you wait?”

Melanie nods appreciatively. “That sounds lovely.”

The woman in blue swivels in her chair to grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge behind her. She hands the bottle to Melanie with a calm smile. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Melanie takes a seat on one of the leather couches in front of the crackling fire. She unscrews the plastic cap on her water and takes a long satisfying drink. She even closes her eyes a little. She doesn’t even get out her phone. Instead, she sits, listening to the waterfall soundtrack and aching for it to fill her pores with enough peace to charge up her batteries for the chaos awaiting her outside of this dentist’s office.

Waiting for someone to mend the fence. . .

3. She storms out of the kitchen and her icy, staccato steps lead her straight to her bedroom. She climbs under the covers and rolls onto her side so her back is facing the door. The barrage of insults hangs in a frozen sheet in the kitchen, but she can feel the tension it radiates. Through tears, she replays the events that ignited the explosive quarrel, and she begins to stew. She replays words exchanged; her mind spins and spins.

How could he? she asks herself. She replays the argument again. She fixates on a few words. How could I stand there and take that from him? She asks herself. The tears continue as she plays the scene over and over. It is amazing the speed at which the mind can stew and replay, stew and replay. Finally, the replays begin to lose some of their fire, and she is able to slow her mind and reflect through the anger. The tears calm, but her wounds are still fresh.

She rolls onto her back and stairs at the ceiling. She starts to imagine the way she will accept his apology. She begins to envision how they will set things right this time. She waits for slow footsteps, the turning of the knob, the warm whisper of the words, “I’m sorry, January.”

She waits.