Looking Out The Window

Susan looked down at her watch. The thin black hands were chopping through the vacuous space; each tick getting sharper and sharper as it sliced through. Susan had quite hoped it had stopped working. As she moved her gaze upward, she looked back out of the greyed café window, slowly scouring the life outside. Waiting. Tick. Waiting. Tock. She nervously stirred her teacup with a small silver spoon, making the sugar granules chase each other in circles like synchronized swimmers. The traffic was loud outside, and the café’s thin windows made no attempt to cover the sounds of passersby. Their shrieks startled her slightly.

“He won’t show Susan.” Her Mother’s soft but persistent voice echoed around her head and she turned away from the outside and back down to the table. She imagined picking up her breakfast knife, agonizingly carving into the wooden surface: ‘Susan woz ere...all day…for 5 hours in fact... nice to meet you Dad.’ As her day dream got carried away with itself, Susan pictured her Father finally turning up to find an empty table, and she watched as he ran his weathered fingers over her words in despair, dashing out onto the street to look for her.

Susan had never met her Father or seen what his hands looked like yet, somehow, she could picture him as if he’d just left the room. She thought back to the phone call. His voice had sounded gruff but familiar, so familiar she felt a lump in her throat that had stayed for days and throbbed like a dull tooth ache.

And no matter how much tea she drank, the lump sat there like a paperweight.

“Anymore tea?” said the kind waitress, who had been tentatively serving Susan all day with a smile that seemed to say she understood. Perhaps she thought Susan had been stood up. This was technically true of course, although not quite the date she was probably picturing.

Susan replied in a hushed whisper, hoping the waitress would get distracted by the family who had just walked through the door and leave her be. “I’m ok. But thank you.”

Susan continued to look at the family. They seemed so happy, so together. The kids were pulling at their parents’ jackets and scarves, motioning and screaming towards an empty table in the corner and yelling "ice cream!". The parents laughed fondly, picking them up onto their shoulders and doing a little dance towards their seats. Like a giddy Irish jig.

And there throbbed the lump; it was growing by the minute.

Susan had been waiting for exactly five hours and 15 minutes. Her Father had agreed he would meet her for a morning coffee, which for Susan, had turned into coffee, tea, breakfast, and then more tea. She was pondering having an afternoon snack when her phone rang. Her pulse began to race as she wildly rooted through her bag, desperate to hear him again. He must be late she thought. Bad traffic.

“Hello?” She said frantically, almost dropping the phone from her clammy palm.

“He there yet?”

Mum. The lump grew. 

Susan paused. She wanted more than anything to tell her Mother he had just ordered an espresso and was sitting opposite her. She wanted to tell her how many wrinkles he had, the colour of his deep blue eyes and how he drank his coffee. More than anything though, she wanted to tell her how eager he'd been to catch up on the last 18 years, and he was sorry.

“No. No not yet Mum.”

“Just come home Susan. Really I told you, there’s no point”. Her Mother had switched into protection mode now and her voice became a little more clipped, as if forcing the end of every word to a deliberate stand still.

“I don’t know how many times I can say it Suze, he’s let the family down. He’s a fucking coward. Always has been. Please just come home. Don't waste any more time on him.”

Susan’s Mother called her Suze when she was trying to be reassuring, and it always seemed to work.

“….Ok Mum, I’ll just settle up. Be back soon”.

Once she’d hung up Susan felt like she was in slow motion. She carefully put down the spoon and, for the first time that day, the sugar stopped swirling.  Perhaps the swimmers had drowned. She picked up her bag, carefully placing the card she’d written him back into the inside pocket and used her napkin to gently wipe off the lipstick she had been frantically re-applying since 9.30am.

Right on cue, the waitress walked over with the bill in hand as if she had seen this all before.

Perhaps she had, Susan hoped. Perhaps Susan wasn’t the only one.