Eraser

I was sitting in the waiting room when I saw her. There she was, other side of the glass, plain as day, two years older. Had it really been two years? Almost. Time marches slowly on.

She looked good, which is to say she looked the same. And then I realized that I was looking, and shot my head down. Had she seen me? I pushed my gaze slightly forward, until I was staring at some banal patch of carpet a few inches from the wall. She was still there, talking with some unknown person in the hallway. She talked and talked, and I kept my eyes steady. She had a lot to say.

Should I say hello? Could I? Would she even want me to? Would she remember what she'd written, how I'd misinterpreted her wishes, how friends was never a possibility? Would time have clapped the dust from our erasers, would it have settled, would it still be lingering in the air, making us cough.

She turned and I sprang from my seat, startling the nice lady reading her monthly magazine, throwing the door open. She turned back, startled by me, but not the sight of me. She waited. I had thought so hard about whether or not I should say anything I forgot to think about anything to say at all. And she walked away.

Two years. I hadn't been able to give her what she wanted. I couldn't say the words. Those three little words can be the hardest things to say, but adding one more can be hardest of all. I lied. I made up some story. I said I had no idea, couldn't figure out why, she deserved an answer I couldn't give and how sorry was I. She took it well. I could have left. Should have. But I waited too long. Her sister came home. She broke down. I am always waiting.