The Wait
He always comes in the middle of the night with little warning and just the right amount of nerve in his veins.
She always knows he’s there before the knock. Senses him, smells him, hears the sound of his distinctive pace climbing the cement stairs.
He stands at her door in the dark breathing heavily, the warm night feeling thick in his chest. Leaning his head on his arm against the door, wondering if this time he won’t have to knock.
She sits in the dark waiting for flesh to connect with wood. “He always hesitates”, she thinks to herself, a mischievous grin creeping to her lips. The waiting is almost as exciting as the taste of booze on his lips. “One of these days I won’t answer.”
“One of these days I won't do it”, he mumbles, going through the motion, hesitating, imagining her on the other side, waiting. He stuns himself with a smile every time. Making her wait is almost as exciting as her tiny frame pressing against his.
Three short knocks, as always. Barefoot, she hurriedly tiptoes across the room, waits a few seconds longer then turns the lock.
Hearing the snap commands him to stand tall and move in closer, the tips of his black cowboy boots already crossing the frame.
She swings the door open faster than anticipated. Her white slip glistens under the light.
They both take a breath and apprehension turns to assertion.
“What took you so long."
