Wait

I take a sip of coffee and grimace. It’s cold and bitter, the cup forgotten for too long on the corner of my table. I probably won’t finish it. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the computer screen. Sixteen tabs open, one of them playing music, too faintly for me to hear the words. The blank Word page stares back at me—I have no idea how to begin this chapter. I left my characters in a dire situation, spirits crushed, bodies exhausted and broken, the villain laughing in the distance. Something has to happen, someone has to save them—but what? Who?

The ding of an incoming email breaks off my concentration. I click on the blinking tab, silently praying for an e-transfer notice.

"Darla, can you take a moment to help…"

I click away. I’ve seen dozens of petitions like this one, calls for justice, calls to action. I’ve seen the headlines, in the blur of a scroll down social media. People being murdered for the color of their skin, for their gender, often both. As usual, appalling tweets from the President, something about terrorists, talks of involving the army. I’ll sign later, when I have time. For now, I need to focus on this scene, and then get to the other items on my to-do list. I scan it quickly. A ticket to pay, emails to write to my publisher. Some errands to run, a birthday party to prep for. And, of course, this damn chapter, the still-blank page, the ever-looming deadline.

I grab my to-do list again, pen in hand. Write half a chapter—painfully done. Pay ticket—done. Emails—done. It’s ten to two, and I’m starving. The sushi I ordered between two emails should be here soon; after that, I’ll need to get downtown and run my errands before shops close.

When I finally head out the door, blonde hair pulled back in a quick bun, I still have a smidge of soy sauce on the corner of my lip. The glasses I don’t need are on top of my head—they may be mostly for show, but they do a great job of holding back stray strands of hair. I almost forget to lock my door, and my socks don’t match. No matter—I tug my jeans down a little. People won’t notice. My hand is, as always, on my phone. Before walking to the bus stop, I check my emails again quickly. No responses yet. I switch to the Music app and find a song I can power walk to. At the bus stop, people are looking down, checking their phones. Glimpses of words flash on strangers’ screens.

"Justice…"

"Abolish…"

"Defund…"

"Protest for…"

"Statue toppled…"

Maybe I should check the news, too. Just as I open the app, the bus comes to a screeching halt in front of us, wrenching my attention away from the screen. I dig in my purse for my bus pass and scramble for a seat.

Something flashes in the corner of my vision as I watch the city streets through the window. Someone is standing up, voices are raised. I turn up the volume on my phone. This is just a quick bus ride; my stop is coming up next. Even if I knew what to do, I wouldn’t have time to intervene.

"City Hall," calls out the driver.

And, just like that, I’m off the bus and briskly walking to the bank. They close the earliest, and they’ve reduced their hours in light of the current political crisis. Something about staff meetings and addressing the best way to change and move forward.

"Anything else I can do for you, Miss Page?" asks the teller when I’ve completed my transaction.

"No, thank you," I answer with a quick smile. "I’m in a bit of a hurry."

The store, next, to pick up booze for Ciara’s birthday. I’m not sure I’ll make it in time; I still have to go home, cook dinner, write a bit more and change after I come back. The least I can do is bring plenty of wine. I buy a few bottles of her favorite rosé and a Sauvignon Blanc for myself.

Now, the post office, and the pharmacy, which are thankfully in the same building. I send off my manuscript and pick up the shampoo and toothpaste I needed, stifling a yawn. I need more sleep, but that will have to wait a bit.

By the time I exit the mall with the dress I wanted to buy for my meeting with the publishing house, it’s six o’clock, and I’m exhausted.

On my way back to the bus stop, one earbud falls off. I hear chanting, angry voices rising up a few streets away: another protest. I think about joining, briefly—the past few weeks have been a blur, but the snippets of news I’ve gathered are infuriating. I agree with the protesters, with the petitions flooding into my inbox: change needs to happen. But, tonight, my arms are full and my feet hurt, and I need to get home. I’ll join another protest, I promise myself. Next time. On a day when I’m less busy. I put my earbud back in and crank up the volume.

Though the following day is slowed by the sticky, nauseating sleepiness of a hangover, the week after Ciara’s party whizzes by.

I’m sipping coffee in my kitchen, mentally reviewing the day’s to-do list. My phone buzzes. Meeting in 30 minutes; I’m going to be late. I set down the mug—another cup of coffee I won’t finish. On the table, the newspaper I haven’t opened yet shows images of yet more protests, but I haven’t had the time to join one. Soon, I tell myself, and I’m off, music blasting in my earbuds.

More days fly by, more cups of coffee go cold, forgotten on my desk or my kitchen counter. Back downtown to pick up a few things for a cocktail event, I let myself get distracted by the music, turn a wrong corner—and end up in the middle of a protest.

This could be your chance to march, I tell myself. You believe in this, believe in what they're chanting. Show it. But people are screaming, smoke bombs are thrown in the distance. Scattered signs have been tossed to the ground. Some protesters are still marching, chanting, anger distorting their faces. The dark wall of police shields at the end of the street sends a shiver down my spine. Some protesters scatter, heading away from the protest, running to safety—and I do the same, my bags hitting my legs with every step. Behind me, wisps of smoke curl up in the air, dirty grey against the blue August sky.

After that protest, I started checking the news more. People are angry—I should be, too. I am. And yet I still click away from the emails asking for my signature, my financial support. Later. When I get my check, I’ll donate. When I finish this chapter, I’ll sign. Later.

On October 23, the protests turn into an uprising. The government is overthrown—the army has refused to fight civilians. Outnumbered and exhausted, they gave up. In the days that follow, people begin to build a new sort of community, striving to fix the mistakes of the past, trying to achieve justice. It’s working—slowly. The anger and the fear are beginning to ebb away, and I should be happier than I am, but guilt dampens the happiness. There’s grief, too. Many people lost their lives in the struggle. I should have done something. A nice sentiment, but much too late. There was a revolution, and I should have been part of it.

On October 26, I’m alone at a bar. People are celebrating. Loud, boisterous, almost carefree. A few are even wearing Halloween costumes. My friends are celebrating, too, at another bar. I wasn’t invited. When people began crying out in anger, I agreed, but I didn’t take action. I waited, and I waited—too long. Change needed to happen, and I wasn’t there. I was deaf to the outside world; eventually, my silence became too loud for it to ignore.