The Ticking, the Tocking, the Stopping
I twist my own fingers, & warm them - like a pianist preparing to perform her own concerto. A little like that, but smaller. My cup of caffeine is cold & almost empty, as the morning wanes. A morning of waiting. Stillness, in its least filling form. I quietly resolve to wait with better purpose than I normally do. I am a waiter. A right-on-timer. If you tell me I need to be ready for something by 8a.m., I will try to wake up two hours before then, & be ready by 7:45. When the clock reads 7:56, I will already assume you are late, & might have died, until I stop & Read that aforementioned clock. It's a little psychotic, the way I wait. It's a panicky wait. Eyes on the door, as if my very life depended on it. Hands clutching the phone in case they contact me & it's desperate. My idea of desperate has become wildly skewed. "Desperate" is 5 minutes late, or worse, a cancellation. If I'm really feeling like taking ...