Wait. Wait, I tell myself. No need to rush. Wait for it. If I can. I will if I can. I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying, but the thought of her. It’s hard. So hard. So I close my eyes. Concentrate. Thinking of her. The smell of her, that’s first. I always smell her first. Fresh, glorious, lovely. And hovering there. A foot away. Maybe less, but seemingly a foot. Close enough to touch. Yes, to touch if I wanted. And I want to. But I won’t. Not yet. Wait. Wait, I tell myself. How long have I waited like this? Before? I can’t count the times. No, I can’t, don’t want to. It’s frightening. To wait. But I do.

What if she denies me, smiles and moves off? She could, she might. Would she? Hasn’t before but that means nothing. She could easily turn. Away. Against. And I’d be lost. I would. To not have her, have that, I’d be lost. Left there, blinking, the half-light of pulled blinds and expectation. Patterned tie askew and lost. So I wait. Wait, I tell myself. As she inches closer. Not far now, not far at all. But holding off. Teasing. Did I say something? At dinner? A harsh remark, a misread glance? I play it back, all of it. Scan the menu of our conversation for an oversight, a cigarette not lit quickly enough. Have I failed? I hope not, not now. So close. A breath away. But nothing. I remember nothing but this moment. This waiting. Rain on the window and waiting. She’s like that, though; I calm myself. One week difficult, the next rewarding. It’s a game, this wondering. What’ll it be this time? All week, at my desk, the washroom, the conference area that looks out on the lake. Each day, I play it out, pondering. How did it go? How will it be? Does she love me? Could she? Yes? But nothing. Not a sign from above, from her. Nothing. An inch closer, perhaps. But nothing yet. So I wait. Wait, I tell myself. She’s here, it’s coming. Just wait.