I'll Always Wait

I'll Always Wait

A Story by Jazzi Akiko Ashanti
"

Just the continuous rambling thought of a early bird diner

"

It's about 5:30 and I'm sitting in the only diner I know that's open at 5:30. My meal has gone cold with nothing to show but a few hesitant and half-hearted bites on the greasy American grilled; the toothpick with the green tip has been broken into a million splinters; my thoughts are broken into a million splinters. The back of my receipt has been scribbled all over. Scribbles, you've got my thoughts in scribbles, in one long and winding line without a decent place to rest. I bit the eraser, I thought I had it firmly between my teeth until I found myself rolling it around with my tongue and spitting it across the table. I see it roll along the tabletop, roll in a little semi-circle and then in a figure eight. 

 

It reminds me of how we went skating on that frozen river not long ago. When you taught me how. My mind skips back to when I disappeared through the ice, you pulled me though and yet, you pulled me through most things. When my mother died, you pulled me through. When my...nevermind...there are just too many to list really. And now that you're gone, I'm trying to pull myself along that path of life but it just seems that I'm not strong enough...you always joked to me about that, you always said I was weak; I think you prided yourself on being the stronger of us. 

 

I'm lost in my thoughts when a waiter with lukewarm coffee stops and asks me if I want another fill, forced smile in tact. I wave him off, I'm tired of fake smiles and lukewarm coffee. He frowns and grimaces at the receipt I'd been molesting all night. He sees the scribbles, the dark ones and the light ones, he sees the rollercoaster of emotions and the dead-ends of thought and all I can see is the unsightly stain on his crooked bow-tie. He wants me to leave, he's tired of walking around with lukewarm coffee and a stained tie. I want to leave, cuz I'm tired of forcing a love letter upon you. 

 

You knew I could never write. It's raining outside and it's 6:50 almost an hour has past I think, and I've moved onto writing on the back of checks. I've torn a few out and stuffed them in my pocket for future reference. I try to write about the rain for a moment, but what can I say? It's wet and it's falling...that's about all the poetry I can muster. I've never been good at these kinds of things. I can hardly remember the words to my favorite song, let alone make up my own. I mumble through songs, much like I mumbled through our first meeting. Under that flickering streetlight that suddenly went out when I tried to brush the hair our of your face.... 

 

 

A car comes gliding past the diner, high beams blaring and I squint though there's nothing to squint at. I tap on the table with my pencil and see the scribbled backs of checks, I again cram them into my pockets and sigh. 

 

I glance out the window, thinking of something to write on, then the little bell above the grungy glass door rings and I feel my ears flick. A smile comes across my face as the visitor comes walking down my aisle, as gorgeous as the first time though not wearing that white gown.  

 

My legs stand and I hold my arms out. You dive into them, your hair wet and sticking out at places you didn't intend it. Your clothes are soaked to the fibers but your smile is as warm as ever. We sip our coffees and you rant on about how your hair wouldn't turn out and just when you got it right, it began to rain. I don't really care. I like to hear your rants, I like to hear your voice, and you hair looks beautiful always. 

 

"Why'd you get here so early?" You ask me, "You know You don't have to wait."

 

I'll always wait for you, don't you know that? You say you have to get to work now, and I guess I do too. You lean forward and kiss me goodbye, I hate it but I know I'll see you again a little later. Time flies when I think of you. You leave but turn around for a little wave as you get back into your little car, and drive down the little road. I stand in the doorway and smile. My hands crawl into my pockets and my fingertips touch the scribbled lines of my love letters, I had forgotten all about them.You've broken my heart in splinters all over again, but I know....good Lord I know....that it won't be long before we meet in that little booth again, in this little diner, like we have for the past thirty years.

ramp

© 2013 Jazzi Akiko Ashanti


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Added on February 24, 2013
Last Updated on February 24, 2013
Tags: diner, thoughts, prose, writing, love, literature. continous