“Will You Wait for Me?”
Time flies so quickly. Before she knew it, she was nearly fifty. It felt like she’d stay young forever. Natalie glanced at herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that. Nothing but disappointment. Still, they say you have to love yourself at any age. Fine. But what was there to love? Dark circles under her eyes, downturned lips, wrinkles, sad eyes. Oh, best not to dwell on such *loveliness*.
It wasn’t as if she’d spent her life hauling bricks or breaking her back in a factory—no, she’d sat in a warm, bright office shuffling papers. Yet every year had left its mark.
Natalie sighed. *What’s the point of fretting? Who’s even looking at me? Plenty of younger women out there. Pull yourself together. Breathe.* She inhaled sharply, then again. *So what if Michael’s back? He probably forgot I existed. So much water under the bridge…*
—
“Nat, fancy the cinema?” Michael asked, ears burning crimson.
“What’s playing?” she asked, feigning indifference while her heart leapt.
“Can’t remember the name, but the lads said it was good.”
“I like romance or adventure,” she mused, watching his face fall. “Alright, fine. When?”
“Right now?” he said brightly.
Natalie hesitated. No chores from Mum, and homework could wait. No need to ask permission—Mum was at work.
“Go on, then.”
The cinema was quiet—weekday matinee. Lights dimmed, the film began: car chases, gunfights. She stole glances at Michael’s profile, lit by the screen. By the climax, the hero saved the girl, and they kissed. Natalie stiffened, cheeks flushing—Michael had seen it too.
Then his hand found hers, fingers lacing. Her heart fluttered. She held still, hardly daring to breathe. *Any second now, he’ll kiss my cheek…* But no. The chase resumed, his eyes flicked back to the screen, and she sat frozen in the dark, pulse racing.
Lights up, he let go. She shivered, buttoning her coat. Outside, dusk had settled. He chattered about the film as if she hadn’t been beside him. Awkward silence stretched between his bursts of commentary. She kept waiting for him to take her hand again, but he clutched her schoolbag, gesturing with his free one.
At her gate, she paused, eyes downcast. He was quiet too.
“Best go in,” she murmured, taking her bag.
“Nat—we’ll go again, yeah?”
She turned. Too dark to see his face, but she knew that nervous edge.
“Course!” she called, then dashed inside.
They went a few more times. Each time, the moment the lights dimmed, his hand found hers. Sometimes they just walked. He’d left school the year before, waiting for his call-up to the army. Worked at his dad’s garage meantime.
Once, he kissed her—just a brush at the corner of her mouth. She’d feared he never would. How dizzyingly happy she’d been!
Come spring, he left. The night before, he’d tossed a pebble at her window. She threw on a coat and met him outside. He’d been drinking.
“Leaving at dawn. Will you wait for me?”
“*Yes*,” she rasped. “Of course.” How could he doubt? No one else existed for her.
Then Mum called from the window, cutting it short. She pecked his flushed cheek and fled inside.
Dad drank himself to death last winter—froze in a snowdrift. Mum took up with another man. Natalie kept to herself, avoiding the kitchen. After school, she left for the nearest city—just ninety minutes by coach. Mum didn’t argue. Might’ve even been relieved. Gave her a bit of money, waved her off as she boarded with a single suitcase.
At first, she stayed with a friend’s relatives. Took bookkeeping courses, rented a room with her first wage.
Michael never promised letters. Maybe he forgot, maybe he’d no time. Didn’t matter—she waited. Rarely visited home. One trip, she noticed Mum’s rounded belly. A pang—*she’ll love this one properly*.
Mum was barely forty, but Natalie couldn’t fathom her as young. None of her classmates’ mothers had babies at that age. Mortified, she stopped visiting.
Yet when Michael’s return neared, she went back. A friend wrote his parents expected him that weekend. Baby brother—*little Mikey*—toddled about now. Every time she said his name, her chest ached.
She kept darting outside, scanning the road. He never came. Overheard his mother at the shops: delayed, bringing a fiancée—some girl from his posting.
Natalie cried into her pillow all night. Left at dawn.
Six months later, she married some bloke. No idea why—no one pushed her. Knew instantly it was a mistake. He sneered she was lucky to land him, *a country girl like her*. Spent evenings with mates, football and lager. She wouldn’t endure it—knew how that ended. Tried talking; he just shrugged:
“Don’t like it? No one’ll have you anyway.”
Thankfully, no kids. Left with what she came with.
Work gave her a bedsit—tiny, but her own, kitchen included. Years later, she bought a flat. Mum, stepdad, and brother visited, full of news: Michael divorced, moved back, then up North for work.
“You ought to marry. Got your own place now. Clock’s ticking,” Mum said in the kitchen, men snoring in the next room. “Plenty of fish in the sea, love. Not just him.”
“How’d you know?” Natalie snapped.
Men had tried. She was shy—no dancing, no pubs, didn’t drink or smoke. Too old-fashioned, pining for some grand romance. Now little Mikey was grown, married, crashing at hers while job-hunting. His wife chattered nonstop—local gossip included.
“Michael came back two months ago. Flash car. Made a mint at sea, but got grounded—bad health. Stayed a month, then left. Bought a flat here, they say.”
Natalie waited for mention of a wife. None came. Didn’t ask.
Now she scanned crowds on buses, in shops. Once, she called to a stranger—wrong man. Nearly dumped her drink fleeing his chat-up.
Then summer came. Women in bright dresses and heels. Natalie frowned at the mirror. Put on a bit—nothing dire. Hair needed colour. Face… Well. Not an actress, couldn’t afford work.
“Glad he’ll never see me like this. Let him remember me young. *If* he remembers.”
At the salon, the barber snipped, dyed her hair auburn. The mirror stunned her—looked fifteen years younger. She beamed.
Walking home, she savoured the glances. New shoes bit her feet. Sat on a bench, licked an ice cream, but gave up—caught the tram. Packed despite Sunday. Standing hurt.
Her stop. Doors clattered open.
“Natalie?”
She turned—who?
“Move it, love!”
Again her name. Someone shoved through the crowd. Then passengers jostled her out, doors shut, tram rolled away.
She stared after it. *Him, or my mind playing tricks?*
Home, she kicked off her shoes. “Doubt it was him. He’d have a car. Probably not fate. Time to move on.”
But Michael *had* seen her. Jammed behind some woman’s handbag, cursing. By the time he broke free, Natalie was gone.
*Nat. Same as ever.* Why’d he ever tangled with that captain’s daughter? Lies about a baby… Now he’d lost her again.
Maybe not. Could life give them one more chance? A city’s not so big two souls can’t cross paths.
Next evening, Natalie stepped off early—shopping. Walked carefully, wincing at blisters. A man blocked her path.
She looked up. Michael. Older, heavier, but him.
“Mike—” She hugged him. They stood there, afraid to break the spell.
