The Voicemail

I'm not sure how long it's been, but it's been long enough to where I might start crying.

I'm not sure how long it's been, but it's been long enough to where I might start crying.

But I can't because I'm sitting on a bench watching shy couples shuffle past me. So I'll just sniffle. It's cold out anyway.

I can feel the cold planks through my jeans, and the stiffness offers no support when I adjust my butt. I push myself into the arm of the bench, letting my jacket create an air bubble effect for my body so I can feel any sliver of warmth. But then the wind picks up again and ruins this warm cocoon I just created.

How rude!

All I want to do is just sit here without bracing my body every five seconds because winter isn't kind enough to let up its chill for one day!

But if you weren't an hour late, I wouldn't need to create a warm cocoon to shelter my slowly freezing body in the first place. But I have to stay here because you said we would meet on this boardwalk, on this bench, at this specific time. If I get up and walk around to warm myself, you might come at the exact time I'm at the opposite end of the boardwalk. You might get worried and leave when you don't see me.

I've been waiting this long for you. I can suffer a bit longer, I guess.

I see another couple walk past. They are laughing into each others' chests, shielding each other from the sheer wind. I sniffle again. I just know my nose will be flaky when I get home.

I hate you for choosing to meet here, now. And you don't even have the decency to show up on time. But I know you. You've always been like that; you'll show up five, ten, fifteen minutes late to any event and laugh it off with a fake apology. You'll say it's this airy brain I inherited from my dad!

I laugh at the idiocy of that statement. I laugh again because you'll say that same thing to me, and then I'll have no choice but to shake my head with a smile.

So I guess I don't hate you.

I shuffle in my seat again. There's a man across from me, playing the guitar. He doesn't seem to mind that his fingers will probably fall off. I give him three more minutes before he packs up and leaves. But his song makes me sad and uncomfortable, so I just scrunch my rock hard nose and fix my gaze out to the waves crashing against a vacant beach. Maybe if I can't see the man play guitar, I won't be able to hear him.

The song is eventually lost to the sireny sound of wind sailing into one ear, and out the other. In that swish of wind, I hear your voicemail. The last time I heard your voice:

Hey, baby. My flight was delayed again. You'd think we could figure out how to fly a plane through a few snowflakes by now, but apparently not...Doesn't matter though, I'll make it home to you soon, okay? My new flight comes in at 10 a.m. so...I guess I'll have to meet you at your mom's house. That is if you still want to have Christmas there...I don't know what I'm saying, of course you do...so...anyway...I guess I don't wanna hang up just yet cause I thought I was gonna be with you today...I bet it's gonna be crazy this year, with your sister finally coming down, and her eight children and all that. But I haven't seen Bradley yet, so I guess I'm excited to meet the little devil...Listen, how ‘bout we meet up, just the two of us, before things get chaotic at the house? I've got a surprise for you anyway. So how 'bout...How 'bout we meet on the boardwalk, at that same bench we sat at and listened to that hippie dude play the guitar on our first date. You remember that? Ok, well, I should probably hang up now...I know you don't want to hear me ramble on...but I guess I'll call again if anything changes, okay? Just wait for me at our place, and I'll be there around 11:30. No, no. I'll meet you at that bench at 11:30 sharp. I won't be late, I promise. Okay, I better go now...I'll see you soon and I love you.

You'll think it's cheesy, but I memorized your voicemail. I know every pause you take, every breathy laugh that makes the speaker burst out in fuzz. But it's getting harder and harder to articulate the face that accompanies those pauses and laughs.

I can't hear your voice outside of the recording I've listened to every day since you left it.

I can't see you anymore. And I know you hated not seeing me either, but I think my hate is stronger.

Yes, it's much stronger.

But I'll keep waiting for you in the bitter cold.

I want to see you, feel you sitting next to me, hear your voice in a different script so badly that I'll probably wait all day.

It actually doesn't sound so bad when I've already been listening to your voicemail for a year.