The Long Wait
This is the nerve-wracking bit. Will she be here, won’t she be here? I wasn’t expecting to be this worked up – I mean, we hardly know each other.
Somehow I got here two hours before her flight was even due to land – and, of course, she had to pick up her baggage. But I coudn’t sleep and fretting around at home wondering if she had bottled it wasn’t helping. She’d sent me a text to say she couldn’t wait to see me again and was at the airport, but until I see her off that plane and coming down the escalator at Gatwick, I’ll be holding my breath.
I shouldn’t have had coffee, it just ramps up the worry. But I’ve had nearly three hours of waiting at Arrivals and I’ve spent most of it perched on a bench eating M&S prawn mayo sandwiches and drinking black coffee.
When the time comes, it’s as though everything’s blurred and moving in slow motion. Person after person comes through the Arrivals hall, grinning and hugging, yawning and dragging suitcases, thin, fat, indifferent, but none of them are her.
And then finally, there she is. What a beauty. Solid, glossy leather on wheels, being dragged along by that girl I remember meeting in Bolivia.
The girl speeds up, a delighted look on her face, running and slipping in her high heels as she drags her suitcase towards me, laughing. We hug and she kisses me, and right in that moment I kiss her back and I mean it. Thank God she’s here, the dogs didn’t get her, they didn’t search her case in customs. The lining must still be intact, all that glorious powder sealed in safely.
I’ll have to get rid of the girl, of course, but that’s the easy bit.