**Will You Wait for Me?**
How swiftly time slips away. Before she knew it, Susan was nearly fifty. It felt like only yesterday she was young, untouched by years. She studied her reflection in the mirror, turning her head this way and that. Nothing but disappointment. Still, they say you must love yourself as you are. Fine. But what was there to love? The darkened circles beneath her eyes, the downturned corners of her lips, the faint creases mapping her face—and those sad, tired eyes. *Better not look too long at such beauty.*
She hadn’t spent her life hauling bricks or toiling in a factory. No, she’d sat in a bright, warm office shuffling papers. Yet time had carved its toll all the same.
Susan exhaled sharply. *Why am I even upset? Who looks at me anymore? There are plenty of young girls now. Just calm down. Breathe.* She ordered herself to inhale deeply, then again. *So what if Michael’s back? He forgot me long ago. So much has changed since then…*
—
*”Susan, let’s go to the cinema?”* Paul asked, his ears flushing scarlet.
*”What film?”* Susan feigned indifference, though her heart leapt.
*”Forgot the name, but the lads said it’s good.”*
*”I like romances. Or adventures,”* she mused, watching his face fall. *”Alright, fine. When?”*
*”Right now?”* He brightened.
She hesitated. Her mother hadn’t left chores, and homework could wait. No need to ask permission.
*”Let’s go.”*
The theater was nearly empty—midweek, mid-afternoon. The lights dimmed; gunfire and car chases erupted onscreen. Susan stole glances at Paul’s profile, illuminated by the flickering images. He was engrossed. When the hero rescued the girl and they kissed, Susan tensed, cheeks burning—Paul had seen it too.
Then his hand found hers, fingers lacing through. Her pulse stuttered. She sat frozen, barely breathing. *Any second now, his lips will brush my cheek…* But no. The chase resumed, and Paul’s attention snapped back to the screen. She held her breath until the credits rolled.
Lights up, he let go. The warmth left with him. Outside, winter dusk settled early. As they walked home, Paul recounted the film’s best scenes as if she hadn’t been beside him. Awkward silences punctuated his chatter. She waited, hoping he’d take her hand again—but one carried her bag, the other gestured wildly.
At her gate, she hesitated, eyes downcast.
*”Shall I go?”* She took her bag and unlatched the gate.
*”Susan—we’ll go again, yeah?”* He sounded afraid of refusal.
In the dim light, she couldn’t see his face, but she knew.
*”Yeah!”* she called back, darting inside.
They went to a few more films. Each time, the moment the lights dimmed, his hand found hers. Sometimes they just walked. Paul had left school early, helping his father in the garage. That spring, he’d be drafted.
Once, he kissed the corner of her mouth. She’d feared he never would. Nothing had ever felt so perfect.
Then he left for service. The night before, he’d thrown a pebble at her window. She’d pulled on a coat and met him outside. He smelled of beer.
*”I leave tomorrow. Will you wait for me?”*
*”Yes,”* she whispered. *”Of course.”* How could he doubt it? To her, no one else existed.
Her mother called her inside. Susan rose onto her toes, kissed his burning cheek, and fled.
Her father had drunk himself to an early grave. Her mother remarried. The house felt alien, the kitchen tense. After school, Susan left for London—only an hour by train. Her mother hadn’t protested. If anything, she’d seemed relieved, handing Susan a small sum and waving her off with one battered suitcase.
At first, Susan slept on a friend’s sofa. She took accounting courses, rented a tiny flat with her first paycheck.
Paul never promised letters. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he couldn’t send them. It didn’t matter—she waited anyway. She rarely visited home. Then, one trip, she noticed her mother’s rounded belly. A sting of jealousy: *She’ll love this child more. I’m already forgotten.*
Her mother was young—barely forty. But Susan had never seen mothers her age having babies. Shame drove her away.
And yet, when Paul was due back, she returned. A friend tipped her off: his parents expected him that weekend. Her baby brother—*Paulie*—toddled about. Every time she called his name, her chest ached.
She kept running outside, scanning the road. But Paul never came. At the grocer’s, she overheard his mother complain—*delayed, bringing a fiancée from up north.*
Susan cried into her pillow all night. At dawn, she caught the first train back.
Six months later, she married a man she barely knew. No one forced her. She regretted it instantly. He sneered at her provincial roots, boasted she’d never do better. His nights were pints and football with mates. She wouldn’t endure it—her father’s ghost warned her how it ended. But when she protested, he shrugged: *”Don’t like it? Leave. You won’t find better.”*
No children, thankfully. She walked out as she’d walked in.
Work granted her a cramped bedsit—small, but hers. Years later, she bought a flat. Her mother visited, chatter brimming with news: *Paul’s divorced. Came home, then left for Aberdeen.*
*”You should remarry,”* her mother nagged over tea. *”You’ve a flat now. Time for children. The world doesn’t begin and end with Paul.”*
*”How would you know?”* Susan snapped.
Men courted her, but Susan was old-fashioned—no clubs, no wine, no cigarettes. Romance never stuck. A relic, dreaming of love as pure as ink on parchment.
Her baby brother Paulie married young, moved to the city, crashed at her flat with sacks of potatoes and homemade jam. His wife gossiped eagerly—*Paul visited last month. Fancy car. Made a fortune at sea. Medical discharge. Bought a place here.*
Susan waited for mention of a wife. None came.
Now she scanned every crowd, every shop, every bus. Once, she mistook a stranger for him. The man smiled, tried to chat. She fled.
Then cursed herself—*foolish, to see him everywhere. He forgot you long ago.*
—
Summer arrived. Women donned florals and heels. Susan scrutinized her mirror. A little heavier, but not terribly. Her roots needed touching up. Her face… Well, nothing to be done. She wasn’t an actress—no budget for surgeries.
*”Better Paul remembers me young. If he remembers at all.”*
At the salon, the barber transformed her—chopping, dyeing her hair auburn. The mirror gave her back a younger woman. She tipped him generously.
Walking home, she basked in glances. New shoes pinched. She rested on a bench, ate an ice cream, then limped to the tram stop.
The tram was packed. She stood, wincing. At her stop, doors clattered open.
A voice called her name.
She turned, but how could she pick out one face in the crowd?
*”Madam, are you getting off?”* Impatient voices swarmed.
Again, her name.
Someone shoved through the car toward her. Then the tide of commuters pushed her onto the street. The doors slammed. The tram rumbled away.
Had it been him? She’d never know.
Home, she kicked off her shoes. *”Probably not. Even if it was… he knows the tram line now. My stop. If he wants to find me, he will.”*
But would he?
Paul had spotted her instantly. Thrilled. But a woman’s bag snagged his sleeve. By the time he wrestled free, Susan was gone. He’d craned to see her through the window.
*Susan.* Unchanged. Why had he ever tangled with that captain’s daughter? Lies about a baby… And now, just as fast, he’d lost her again.
But maybe not forever. London wasn’t so vast.
The next evening, Susan exited the tram early, stopping at a shop. Walking home, she watched her step—blisters stung.
A man stepped into her path.
She looked up.
*Paul.* Older, heavier, weathered—but him.
*”Paul…”* She pressed into him. They stood there, afraid to move, to break the spell.
