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waiting, seeing On this Sunday evening I sit in the dark of my Jeep, watching the occasional passing couple on the sidewalk, listening to the jazz from a nearby bar that infiltrates the soft cloth top of my vehicle, layering over the music I’m listening to myself. It defuses the mood that I’d been enjoying, one scored by the sort of music that makes a man feel reflective about who he’s become, and the distances he’s crossed to be this person. So instead I sit in the Jeep in the dark and watch the passersby. I remember many nights of waiting in cars to pick up this person or that. An ex-wife, a good friend, an acquaintance of someone’s who just needs a ride somewhere. I recall the nature of the conversations that followed — the tones and cadences if not the topics. There was nothing remarkable about those nights of wait-abouts, nothing terribly special about them. Tonight feels different. So I sit here, parked on the sidewalk of a quiet street, one lit up by trees infested with Christmas lights like fireflies, bordered by storefronts and shops that are traced with tiny dots and dashes of light. There’s one building in particular that I’ve come to wait in front of, and its very tall windows are fogged-over — perhaps by the warmth of conversation from the party going on inside, or maybe by artificial spray-can frost. In this dim light I really can’t be certain which. I am waiting for a woman whom I have waited for many times already. Like my grandfather, who often waited for my grandmother on shopping mall benches or in the driver’s seat of their car, content just to sit and watch the people around him and be, I find myself enjoying these times. There’s a certain anticipation about them; traveling from one place to another in order to be there, waiting for her, when she is finished bustling about. To be the smile she sees when her feet are aching or she is storming in barely-contained frustration about some impoliteness that has scorched her day. To just be her constant, the man who cares for her, who waits for her, who will make sure she always has the things she needs. Even if it’s just something as simple as a ride to our home. So tonight I wait for her. She’s inside the building, tidying up after the party, collecting the food that wasn’t eaten. She’ll come out in a few minutes, feeling good about her night, wearing the anticipation on her face of the night’s project, a scarf she can’t wait to make more progress on. This is a woman who wears her happiness like a warm coat, snuggled around her face and body, barely containing her good mood. When we are in the car together, driving places, she traces my fingers with her own, or skims her hand up my neck and into your hair. She points out my lead foot with a flick of her eyes. She sings songs in her pretty voice, one of my favorite things about our weekend road trips. Tonight she emerges from the building wearing the smile you thought she might be wearing, the smile that makes you all goopy inside because it’s just so honest and true. Tonight she’s your fiancee, but there is a night not so far off, five or six months from now, when she will emerge from this same building as your wife. I’m going to enjoy every minute of the wait.
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