The Wait
By Anna Callender
As she lay in bed one late August night, June found that sleep wouldn’t come. Moonlight trickled in through the edges of the curtains and pooled on the sheets beside her face. John lay next to her, and she could hear the rhythm of his breath. She had taken comfort in the sound once, but now, it was only an aggravation.
June found herself remembering sleepless nights like these back in college, when she was set on becoming a poet. She would stay up until dawn, buried in her books, and still get to class on time. Back then, her tiredness had been different; it was the kind that sprung from drive and ambition, not the syrupy lethargy that clung to her bones each day. On nights like these, she sometimes imagined what could have been if she hadn’t dropped college to marry John. It was nothing against him: he was a fine man, a good husband. But that’s all he was.
Something shriveled inside June as she realized he must see her the same way: a fine woman, a good wife. Excellent at boiling string beans and proficient at sewing cuffs into shirts. She showed him one of her poems once. He had shrugged and warned her that writing would dull her eyesight.
Giving up on sleep, June got out of bed. She tiptoed down the hallway, pausing when she reached the door to her children's room. Maria and Terry were bundled in their beds. They looked younger somehow--smaller in the moonlight that slanted in through the blinds. June sighed quietly and continued down the stairs.
She traipsed through the kitchen, the darkness making strange shapes of the pots and pans that still lay piled in the sink. Her apron hung on its hook, a specter in the night.
She walked through the living room, past the silent TV, for once not playing I Love Lucy or Leave it to Beaver. She tiptoed around John’s favorite chair.
She hesitated when she reached the front door. She knew she should head back upstairs, but what good would it do? She would only toss and turn all night.
June stepped outside.
The pavement was rough against her bare feet, still warm from the heat of the afternoon. A light breeze blew, carrying with it the smell of hydrangeas. It tossed her auburn curls and ruffled the hem of her pajama pants. She breathed in deeply. June had a strange feeling that it was the first real breath she had taken in a long time, and she found herself gulping the night air greedily, frantically, as though she had broken the surface after a dive through deep water.
She turned in a slow circle, surveying the nightscape around her. It was odd, how every house looked the same in the darkness. She knew who lived where--the Smiths to her left, the Johnsons to her right--but now, the silent buildings seemed no more than empty husks.
June began to walk. She didn’t know where she was headed, only that she felt lighter with every footfall. Before long, the identical houses fell away, making room for rundown buildings and wide gravel-strewn roads. In the distance, June could see outlines of the empty factories that lined the train tracks.
For a moment, she imagined turning back: easing the front door open, tiptoeing up the stairs, and sliding back under the covers before anyone knew she had left. A sharp feeling sputtered to life within her at the thought. She was surprised to realize that it was rage.
She kept going. June walked through the deserted town square, past the bakery and the dry cleaners. It wasn’t long before she had reached the train station.
She checked the schedule on the wall: the trains ran every hour, and the 2:35 would arrive in mere minutes.
For the first time, it truly dawned on her what she was considering.
This was madness. She had children, a husband, a home. What would she have if she left it all behind? Nothing but a set of pajamas and a dream that she had left to collect dust nearly a decade ago. Change was danger. Why throw away stability?
As she debated turning back, a flash of movement caught her eye.
Someone was walking up the stairs towards the platform. It was a woman in a neatly pressed dress, her lashes still dabbed with yesterday's mascara. Her hair was curled immaculately, as though she had only just taken the rollers out. She was the kind of woman June spent every day trying to become--the kind who hosted dinner parties and took her children to the movies on weekends.
She held a suitcase in one hand.
Her foot caught on the last step. The woman tripped and her purse spilled, its contents sprawling across the concrete. A tube of lipstick rolled in June’s direction. She picked it up and held it out to the woman.
“Thank you,” the woman breathed, taking the lipstick from her. She hefted her suitcase off the ground, struggling to balance her purse on her arm.
“Want me to hold that for you?”
The woman smiled gratefully as she handed June the suitcase. “Things are so heavy these days.”
“Tell me about it,” June replied adjusting her grip on the suitcase. “I can carry this onto the train.”
In the distance, a whistle blew.
THE END
Author Bio: Anna Callender lives and writes in Northern Virginia. Their flash fiction has appeared in local and national literary magazines.