**Will You Wait for Me?**
Time flies, doesn’t it? Before you know it, fifty’s just around the corner. And here you were, thinking youth would last forever. Natalie glanced at herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that. Utterly depressing. Still, as they say, you’ve got to love yourself, wrinkles and all. Right. So, what exactly was there to love? The dark circles, the downturned lips, the fine lines, the wistful eyes. Oh, better not stare too long at *that* masterpiece.
She hadn’t exactly been hauling bricks or toiling in a factory—just shuffling papers in a cosy, well-lit office most of her life. Yet every year had etched itself onto her face like a stubborn watermark.
Natalie sighed. *What’s the fuss about? Who’s even looking at me? Plenty of younger lasses about. Calm down. Breathe.* She ordered herself, taking a deep inhale, then another. *Honestly, so what if Michael’s back? He’s probably forgotten I exist. That ship sailed ages ago…*
***
“Nat, fancy the pictures?” Michael asked, redder in the face than a boiled lobster.
“Which film?” Natalie replied, feigning indifference while her heart did a jig in her chest.
“Dunno the name, but the lads said it’s good.”
“I like romances… or adventures,” she mused dreamily, watching his face fall. “Fine, alright. When?”
“How about now?” He brightened instantly.
Natalie considered it. Mum hadn’t left her any chores, and homework could wait. No need to ask permission—Mum was still at work.
“Let’s go,” she agreed.
The cinema was nearly empty—midweek matinee. Lights dimmed, and the film kicked off with gunfire and screeching tyres. Natalie sneaked a peek at Michael’s profile. Riveted. Then, mid-chase, the hero rescued the girl, and they locked lips. Natalie stiffened, flushing—because *Michael* was right there, witnessing this on-screen passion.
Suddenly, he inched closer (armrest permitting), lacing his fingers through hers. Her heart skittered; she froze, barely daring to breathe. *Any second now, he’ll lean in…* Nope. The chase resumed, and Michael’s eyes glued back to the screen. She spent the rest of the film barely breathing.
Lights up, Michael let go, and the sudden absence left her chilly. Outside, winter dusk had settled. They walked home, him replaying every explosion while she wondered why he hadn’t held her hand *outside*. Instead, he juggled her schoolbag and air-punched his commentary.
At her gate, she hesitated.
“Shall I…?” She took her bag, unlatching the gate.
“Nat—we’ll go again, yeah?” His voice held that fragile hope.
She turned. Too dark to see his face, but she knew that fear of rejection.
“Yeah!” she chirped, darting inside.
They went a few more times. And every time, lights down, his hand found hers. Sometimes they just walked. He’d left school the year before; come spring, he’d be off to the army. No uni for him—just helping his dad in the garage.
Once, he even kissed her—just a brush at the corner of her lips. She’d worried he’d never dare. Bliss.
Then spring came, and he left. The night before, he’d tossed pebbles at her window. She’d slipped out, finding him tipsy on the doorstep.
“I leave tomorrow. Will you wait for me?”
“Yes,” she rasped. *How could he doubt it?*
Mum called her in then. She stood on tiptoes, pecked his flushed cheek, and fled.
Home wasn’t easy. Dad had drunk himself into a snowdrift last winter; Mum had moved on. Natalie felt like a guest in her own kitchen. After school, she fled to the nearest city—just ninety minutes by bus. Mum didn’t protest. If anything, she seemed relieved, handing over a bit of cash and waving her off with a single suitcase.
Natalie crashed with a friend’s relatives, took bookkeeping courses, and rented a room with her first paycheck.
Michael never promised letters. Maybe he forgot. Didn’t matter—she waited anyway. Visits home grew rare. Then one trip, Mum’s rounded belly caught her eye. A pang—*she’d* get a new baby to love, while Natalie felt like yesterday’s leftovers.
Forty seemed too old for babies. None of her classmates’ mums had done *that*. Mortified, she stopped visiting.
But she returned when Michael’s discharge loomed. A friend tipped her off. Baby brother—*Michael Jr.*—already wobbled about. Every “Mikey!” summoned *his* face. She kept darting outside, scanning the street.
He never came.
At the shops, his mum griped—*delayed, bringing a fiancée from where he’d served.*
Natalie sobbed into her pillow all night. At dawn, she left.
Six months later, she married some bloke. Why? No idea. No one forced her. Instant regret. He sneered—*not city-bred, lucky he’d stooped to take her.* His hobbies? Football and pints. She wouldn’t endure it. Knew how *that* ended.
“Don’t like it? Door’s open. You’ll never do better.”
No kids, thankfully. A clean break. She left with what she came with.
Work gave her a tiny bedsit—kettle, hotplate, all hers. Years later, she bought a flat. Mum, stepdad, and Mikey visited, bearing news: *Michael’s divorced, back briefly, then up North again.*
“You should remarry,” Mum nagged in the kitchen. “Flat, good job… Clock’s ticking. Not still hung up on *him*, are you?”
“How’d you—?”
Men *had* flirted. But Natalie wasn’t the pub-and-club type. No fags, no vodka, no Tinder swipes. A hopeless romantic, forever waiting for lightning to strike twice.
Now Mikey was grown, married, crashing at hers with spuds and jam in tow. His wife gabbed non-stop—local gossip included.
“Michael was back two months ago. Flash car. Made loads at sea. Medically discharged. Stayed a month, then left. Bought a flat here, they say.”
Natalie waited—*a wife?* But the chatter rolled on. She didn’t ask.
Now she scanned every bus, every shop, hoping to spot him. Once, she called out to a stranger—same build, same smile. Wrong man. Awkward.
Pathetic, really. He’d forgotten her ages ago…
***
Summer arrived. Women flaunted sundresses; Natalie scrutinised her reflection. A bit rounder, but salvageable. Roots needed touching up. Face? Oh well. Not shelling out for Botox on a bookkeeper’s salary.
At the salon, a chatty bloke snipped and dyed her auburn. The mirror stunned her—fifteen years lighter. She beamed.
Strutting home, she basked in glances. Then the new shoes bit. Park-bench ice cream helped, but she limped to the tram.
Packed, even on a Sunday. Standing the whole way, wincing. At her stop, the doors clattered open—
“Natalie?”
She craned her neck. Who—?
“Madam, *move!*” Snaps from commuters. Then again—“Natalie!”
Someone shoved through the crowd. But the tide of bodies ejected her onto the pavement. The tram rumbled off.
Had she imagined it?
Home, shoes off, feet up. *Probably not him. And even if—he’s got a car now. If he cared, he’d find me.*
Across town, Michael kicked himself. *Nat—unchanged!* That skipper’s daughter had lied about a baby, trapped him… And now, *gone again.*
Maybe not. Maybe fate had a sense of humour.
Next evening, Natalie hopped off early—shopping. Padding home, eyes on her blisters, a man blocked her path.
She looked up.
Michael. Older, weathered, but *him.*
“Mike…” She melted into him. For a heartbeat, time paused, fragile as spun sugar.
