Not Enough To Wait For

“Are you still waiting for your friend?”

The server smiles brightly with a professionalism that comes more from consistency rather than genuine concern. 

“Ah, yeah. They should be coming in a few minutes.”

I smile back with equal measure of social decorum — they’re just doing their job — and, honestly, I can’t blame them for asking. This is the third time they’ve come around to question the conspicuously empty chair in front of me.

“Okay, let me know if you want to order another matcha latte!”

Another smile. From both of us? I can’t tell what expression I’m making anymore.

“You know what, yeah let me get another.”

They nod briefly before shuffling out of the crowded space, nimbly navigating themselves through the ambient chatter and pointed glances from other customers looking to be seen. One even went so far as standing up. An impressive feat considering it’s more packed than The Strand on a Saturday.

I shoot another text to Alyx to see if he’s on his way. The last message I sent thirty minutes ago was left on read.

Taking a sip from what’s left of my latte, I glance over to my left and spot a couple laughing with each other. They’re holding hands across the table, looking at each other as if the room wasn’t really here. As if all of it could fall away into a wayward mist and it wouldn’t change the fact that each other’s eyes were the only lights they needed to see.

I think it’s sweet, really, if a little bit unrealistic. Love is messy. It’s brutal. It leaves you holding your heart in your chest as you raise the standard of your soul over a nondescript battlefield. It’s a fiery shot in the dark waiting to hit something solid.

It’s waiting for someone for — now forty minutes — in a crowded teahouse in the middle of Manhattan.

It’s a waiting game.

Clinking the ice around my empty glass, I laugh at myself for not only waiting for the empty seat in front of me to be filled but also for the other latte I ordered which, probably, will take another fifteen minutes.

“It’s never that simple.”

I wish I could write that in the clouds. I wish I could shake Alyx and tell him that I really do care. That I really do wish he’d talk to me more, take the time to text more. I wish I could tell him that I see the way he looks at me and I want to know why he looks equal parts afraid as he does in love.

I wish I could ask him if I look the same way.

But you know we never really got around to that. We used to talk about everything but us. Politics, spirituality, tech, the intricacies of the human psyche; the list goes on. Though the moments I live for are the rare ones. A softly whispered “We make a good team.” or a gently pressed kiss to the side of my lips as he runs his fingers across my hips. 

What I’m trying to say is that I live for our terrible gravity.

It’s stupid and brash, but I find myself threaded with an unsettling hiraeth. It’s intoxicating. It feels like there’s a melody whispering itself across the shell of my ear, reminding me of a home I can’t go back to. Reminding me that I can never quite be in the same room as him without feeling the ground shake beneath my feet.

Like I said. Love is messy. It’s dark. It’s a storm rising over cliffs that drop seven hundred feet into a gnawing sea.

Love is humbling.

“Here’s your latte!”

The server shuffles closer to my table while giving me another practiced smile as I give my own — I admit — slightly watery one. A brief gust of genuine concern rushes across their face.

“Hey, um, I know you’ve been waiting here for a while and I’m sorry to inform you that we may have to ask you to give up the table soon if the rest of your party doesn’t show up.”

They take a quick glance around the tea house to emphasize the busy state of affairs. 

“Sorry for the inconvenience.”

They bow briefly.

“Yeah, no problem. Is it possible to wait another five minutes or so?”

They nod, giving me a subtle commiserate expression before jumping back into the tea induced fray.

I don’t even bother to take out my cellphone.

If I’m to be truthful he’s not the only one to blame when it comes to our relationship. I’m constantly waiting for him but I think, at the end of the day, I’m waiting for myself.

I’m waiting to wake up and tell him the truth. To tell him that I realize I’m afraid of loving him in the same way he’s afraid of loving me. That really we’re both afraid of loving ourselves and maybe it’s too soon to ask another heart to raise a joint coat of arms against a cobalt sky.

I think it’s okay though. Okay to ask, that is. Too soon sometimes isn’t soon enough and like I said love is brutal just as much as it is a godlike quickening. Overall, it was a risk I was willing to take.

Was being the operative word.

You see, I’m not waiting for him anymore. In fact, I can’t wait for him. He hasn’t responded in six months leaving each message I’ve sent on read. Every time I’ve tried to reach out has been my voice ringing out into the chaos of that storm over those cliffs with that seven hundred foot drop into the sea.

I feel stupid for waiting at this tea shop we used to go to. Sitting in Washington Square Park on the bench we used to meet at. I feel stupid for the humility that love has taught me.

I leave enough for the two lattes and a good tip — they really deserve it — and make my way out of the crowded tea house.

It’s time I stop waiting.