Will You Wait for Me?
Time flies so quickly. Before she knows it, she’s nearly fifty. And yet, it feels like just yesterday she was young forever. Natalie studies herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that. Nothing but disappointment. But they say you must love yourself as you are. Fine. So, what is there to love? Dark circles under her eyes, downturned lips, wrinkles etched into her skin, sadness in her gaze. Oh, better not to look at such beauty.
It’s not as though she’s carried bricks or slaved in a factory—she’s spent her life in a warm, well-lit office shuffling papers. Yet every year left its mark on her face.
She sighs. *Why am I fretting? Who even looks at me anymore? The world is full of young girls. Just calm down. Breathe.* She orders herself to inhale deeply, then does it again. *It’s just that Michael’s back. He’s probably forgotten me entirely. So much water under the bridge…*
***
“Natalie, want to go to the cinema?” Mick asks, his ears turning red as he blushes.
“What film?” she replies, forcing indifference while her heart leaps in her chest.
“Can’t remember the name, but the lads said it was good.”
“I like romances or adventures,” she says dreamily, noticing how his face falls. “Fine, let’s go. When?”
“Right now?” he grins.
Natalie hesitates. No chores from Mum, homework can wait. She won’t be back from work to check.
“Alright,” she agrees.
The cinema is nearly empty—middle of a weekday. The lights dim, and the film bursts onto the screen with gunfire and car chases. Natalie steals glances at Mick’s profile, lit by the flickering screen. He’s engrossed. When the hero rescues the girl and they kiss, Natalie stiffens, flushing—especially as Mick is watching too.
Suddenly, he shifts closer—as much as the armrest allows—and takes her hand. Her heart flutters; she freezes, afraid to move. Maybe he’ll kiss her cheek? But no. The chase resumes, and Mick’s eyes lock back on the film. She sits there, breath held, until the credits roll.
Lights come up, and he releases her hand. Instantly, she feels the chill. Outside, dusk deepens. They walk home, Mick animatedly recounting scenes she just watched. The pauses between his words ache. She waits for his hand—but it’s busy gesturing while the other carries her schoolbag.
At her gate, she stops, eyes down. He’s silent too.
“Should I go?” She takes her bag and unlatches the gate.
“Natalie—will you go again?” he calls.
She turns. The dim light hides his face, but she knows he fears rejection.
“Course!” She laughs, then dashes inside.
They go a few more times. Now, as soon as the lights dim, he takes her hand and holds it. Sometimes, they just walk. Mick left school last spring; soon, he’ll be drafted. For now, he works with his dad at the garage.
Once, he even kisses the corner of her mouth. She’d worried he never would. How happy she felt!
Spring comes, and he leaves. The night before, he tosses a pebble at her window. She slips outside. He’s been drinking.
“I leave tomorrow. Will you wait for me?”
“Of course,” she whispers. How could he doubt her? No one else exists.
Mum calls her in. She rises on tiptoes, presses a kiss to Mick’s flushed cheek, then flees.
Her father drank—froze in a snowdrift last winter. Mum moved on. Embarrassed, Natalie avoids the new man, leaves for the city after school. Not far—just an hour and a half by bus. Mum doesn’t object—almost seems relieved. Gives her some money, waves her off.
At first, Natalie stays with a friend’s relatives, trains as an accountant, rents a room with her first wage.
Mick never promised letters. He didn’t think to send any, or didn’t have time—what does it matter? She waits anyway. She visits home rarely. Once, she notices Mum’s rounded belly. A sting—Mum will love this new child, while Natalie feels cast aside.
She can’t see Mum as young—though she’s only forty. None of her classmates’ mothers had babies at that age. Ashamed, Natalie stops visiting.
But when Mick’s due back, she goes. A friend writes his parents expect him that weekend. The little brother—named Micky—toddles about. Every time she calls him, she thinks of Mick.
She keeps running outside, scanning for him. But he doesn’t come. At the shop, she overhears his mother lamenting—he’s delayed, bringing a fiancée from where he served.
Natalie cries into her pillow all night, leaves at dawn.
Six months later, she marries a man she barely knows. No one forced her. She regrets it instantly. He looks down on her—mocks her for being from the sticks, says she’s lucky he married her. He’s always out with mates: football, pints. She won’t tolerate it. Tries to talk—he just shrugs:
“Don’t like it? Leave. You won’t do better.”
Thankfully, no children. They part easily—she takes only what she brought. Work gives her a tiny bedsit, kitchen included. Years later, she buys a flat.
Mum visits with her husband and Micky, shares news: Mick divorced, came back, then left for the oil rigs.
“You should marry. Flat’s sorted. Time for kids,” Mum says in the kitchen while the men nap. “No one catches your eye? The world doesn’t revolve around Mick.”
“How’d you know?” Natalie snaps.
Men court her, but she’s shy. No nights out, no drinking, no smoking. Nothing sticks. She’s old-fashioned—a dreamer of pure love.
Soon, little Micky’s grown, married, moves to the city. Brings potatoes, pickles, jam. His wife stays a week, chatters:
“Mick was back two months ago—flash car. Made money offshore. Medically discharged now. Stayed a month, then left. Bought a flat here, they say.”
Natalie waits—will she mention a wife? But the talk moves on.
Now, she scans faces everywhere—shops, buses, streets. Once, she mistakes a stranger for Mick. He smiles, tries to chat. She barely escapes.
Later, she scolds herself—seeing him in every man, when he’s long forgotten her…
***
Summer arrives. Women in bright dresses, heels. Natalie scrutinises her reflection. A little heavier—but fine. Hair needs colour. Her face? Nothing to be done. Not an actress—no money for surgery. She sighs. *Good Mick doesn’t see me like this. Let him remember me young. If he remembers at all. Probably married.*
On her day off, she visits the salon. The stylist—a man—cuts, colours her hair russet. The mirror shocks her—she’s lost fifteen years. She beams at him.
Walking home, she feels like a star, catching admiring glances. But the new shoes blister her feet. She rests on a bench, eats ice cream—then gives up, heads for the tram.
It’s packed. She stands the whole way, wincing. At her stop, doors clatter open. Someone calls her name. She turns—but how to spot them in the crowd?
“Are you getting off? Don’t block the doors!” voices snap.
Then, again—her name. Someone shoves toward her. But the crowd pushes her out, doors slam, the tram rolls away.
Was it Mick? She’ll never know.
At home, she kicks off her shoes, sinks onto the sofa. *Maybe it wasn’t him. But if it was, he knows my tram now, my stop. If he wants, he’ll find me.*
*If he wants.*
Mick *had* seen her—and thrilled. But a woman’s handbag snagged his shirt. By the time he broke free, Natalie was gone. He strained to see her through the window.
Natalie—unchanged. Why had he ever fallen for the captain’s daughter? Lies, traps… And now he’s lost her again.
But maybe not for good. Maybe life grants second chances. Can two people really miss each other forever in the same city?
Next evening, Natalie steps off early—pops into a shop. Heads home, eyes down, careful of her blisters. Then a man blocks her path.
She looks up. Michael. Older, heavier—but still Mick.
“Mick—”
She presses into him. They stand there, afraid to shatter the moment.
