Expectations

Diane Woodrow
Aug 31, 2018 · 3 min read

This piece came from looking how one can so often fit into the expectations of others, not say things, not be clear, but also not really know.

The character here has a secret life. It could be said on read that she has more than one secret life.

It’s six am. You’ve been awake since four thirty. No magic numbers. No super plan. Social media is calling. Demanding to be checked. Stomach is churning. Something you’ve eaten or fear of the day ahead. Stretched expectations. Desires unfulfilled. Wanting. Hoping. Knowing it will not be. Will never be. It’s six am and social media is calling and your guts are churning. What do you reach for? You roll over. Get out of bed. He’ll be disappointed but will never say. You’ll know it on his face should you care to look. Should you care to see him again. You gather your clothes and slip to the bathroom. Deal will churning insides and social media simultaneously. You dress and walk out the door. It closes with a gentle click. You’re trapped outside as you were trapped inside just now. You don’t look back.

You walk the early morning streets. The sun just starting to warm the air. You pull your jacket tighter round you. Shift your handbag to your shoulder. Stroll along as if you have somewhere to go. Cars rush past. There is no quiet time of day here. Everyone had direction and purpose, or so it seems. You also walk with purpose going where you do not want to go.

A café beckons. You go inside. Order an americano which looks like black dishwater. You fill it full of sugar and drink it while it still scolds your lips. The sudden rush of hot liquid to your stomach causes you to have to use the grubby loo. You hold your breath. Try not to gag. It serves you right. You should be home. But you do not want to go.

The streets are getting busier. Uniformed children dawdling to school. Mother’s rushing past with buggies laden with book bags and older children hanging on the side. You want to stop them. Tell them to slowdown. To enjoy this time. You want to tell them to all go home, go back to bed. You keep on walking against the tide.

Your unfaithful feet lead you to the door you did not want to get to. You stand outside. You see her in the window busying about. Flowers arranged in that blue vase you bought her last Christmas. You want to run. Your feet will not obey you. Your heart desires to be inside. Always hoping. Always wanting things to be so different. You view the tattered edges of your heart. Expectations torn away. You hope. Maybe today will be different.

Your feet lead you up the path. Your hand hesitates between your pocket and the bell. You do not need to announce your entrance. She has seen you. She flings wide the door. Embraces you. You hug back but avoid the kiss. She leads you in chattering about the things that him and her have done together. He is there. Stood in front of one of your Dad’s paintings. He smiles. Your mouth responds and smiles back at him. You will not hug him though you know she wants you to.

‘Come through. Come through.’ She chants with child-like cheerfulness. You both follow dutifully. The table is set with a myriad of jams and spreads. A waft of bacon escapes from the kitchen.

‘Killed the fatted calf’ she says. You smile. You joke that it is not that unusual for you to come. You want to say that if he was not here you might come more. You want to say you could meet elsewhere. You want to say… You want to say? You do not know what you want to say so you say nothing as you always do.”

Diane Woodrow

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I love to write, love history, love encouraging people and enjoy life.