Writing Practice

She scowled with impatience as she stared at the driveway.  Behind her, she could hear the flag snapping.  The same gusts blew strands of hair across her face; growling, she roughly pushed them aside.  She didn’t have any control of the wind or the man she waited for, and she knew it.  She might have to accept it, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

For the fifteenth or sixteenth time, she pulled out her phone, glanced at the silent screen, and angrily shoved it back into her pocket.  He was 23 minutes late.  As always, he hadn’t called.  As always, she would give him seven more minutes before stomping back into the house.

She sighed, looked up to the sky, and tried without success to convince herself just to go inside now.  For once, be the one who wins.  She had nearly talked herself into it, decided that she was finally going to take control of the situation, when a horn sounded behind her.

As always, she turned, smiled, and hopped into his car.  She glanced at the dashboard clock.

As always, he was 29 minutes late.

Just as he started to shift back into drive, she put her hand over his.  Enough.

“You know what?  I think I’ll stay home this time.”

Without waiting, she climbed back out of the car.  Clearly, she’d surprised him, because for a moment he didn’t say anything.  She expected argument, cajoling, even excuses, but all she heard when he spoke was “Why?”

Swallowing, trying to keep the grown-up part of her mind in control, she spun back towards him.  “Because I’m tired of wasting my time waiting on you.  We’re done.”

As she walked back inside, she was surprised to find that instead of sadness, or loss, or even anger, she felt inordinately pleased.  She couldn’t control the wind, couldn’t control the man, but she could control her own life.