“Will you wait for me?”
Time flies so fast. Before I knew it, I was nearly fifty. It felt like I’d be young forever. Natalie glanced at herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that. Nothing but disappointment. Still, they say you’ve got to love yourself no matter what. Fine. But what exactly is there to love? Dark circles under her eyes, downturned lips, wrinkles, sad eyes. Ugh, better not look at such *beauty*.
And it wasn’t like she’d worked herself to the bone—no factory shifts, no heavy lifting. Just a cosy office job, shuffling papers her whole life. Yet every year had left its mark on her face.
Natalie sighed. “What’s the big deal? Who’s even looking at me these days? There are plenty of young girls out there. Just relax. Breathe,” she ordered herself. And she did—a deep inhale, then another. “So what if Michael’s back? He’s probably forgotten I even exist. So much water under the bridge…”
* * *
“Nat, fancy the cinema?” Michael asked, blushing so hard his ears went pink.
“What’s on?” she replied, feigning indifference even as her heart leapt.
“Can’t remember the name, but my mates loved it.”
“I like romance films. Or adventures,” she mused, then noticed his face fall. “Alright, fine. Let’s go. When?”
“How about now?” he said brightly.
Natalie thought about it. No chores from Mum, homework could wait. She didn’t need permission—Mum was at work.
“Let’s go,” she agreed.
The cinema was quiet, midweek matinee. The lights dimmed, and the film started—car chases, shootouts. Natalie stole a glance at Michael’s profile. He was glued to the screen. Then, the hero rescued the girl from the villains, and they kissed. Natalie tensed, cheeks burning—because Michael saw it too, sitting right beside her.
Suddenly, he shifted closer—as much as the armrest allowed—and took her hand. Her heart fluttered. She froze, barely daring to breathe. *Now he’ll kiss my cheek…* But no. The movie shifted back to the chase, and Michael’s eyes locked onto the screen. She sat there, breath held, until the credits rolled.
Lights on, he let go of her hand. The sudden absence left her cold. Outside, winter dusk had settled. They walked home while he recounted the film’s best bits, as if she hadn’t just watched it with him. Awkward silences punctuated his chatter. She kept waiting for him to hold her hand again. But he carried her schoolbag in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other.
At her gate, she hesitated, eyes down. He was quiet too.
“Should I go?” She took her bag and unlatched the gate.
“Nat… we could go again?” His voice was hopeful.
She turned. Too dark to see his face, but she knew he feared rejection.
“Sure!” she said brightly, then dashed inside.
They went a few more times. Every time, the moment the lights dimmed, he’d take her hand and hold it till the end. Sometimes they just walked. He’d left school the year before—spring would take him away for National Service. No uni, just working with his dad at the garage.
Once, he even kissed the corner of her mouth. She’d worried he’d never dare. How happy she’d felt!
Then spring came, and he left. The night before, he’d tossed a pebble at her window. She threw on a coat and slipped outside. He’d been drinking.
“I leave tomorrow. Will you wait for me?”
“*Yes*,” she croaked. “*Of course.*” How could he doubt her? No one else existed.
Then Mum called her in. She rose on tiptoes, kissed his flushed cheek, and ran.
Natalie’s dad had drunk himself to death—frozen in a snowdrift last winter. Mum had moved on. Natalie felt like a guest in her own home, tiptoeing past the kitchen. After school, she left for the city—just an hour and a half by coach. Mum didn’t stop her. If anything, she seemed relieved. Gave her some cash, waved her off as she boarded with one small suitcase.
At first, she stayed with a friend’s relatives—fellow small-town transplants. Finished a bookkeeping course, rented a room with her first paycheck.
Michael never promised to write. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he never got the chance. Didn’t matter—she waited anyway. She rarely visited home. One trip, she noticed Mum’s rounded belly. A pang of hurt—Mum would love this new child, while Natalie felt like an afterthought.
She’d never seen Mum as young. Forty wasn’t old, but none of her classmates’ mothers had babies then. Shame kept her away.
Except when Michael was due back. A friend texted—his parents expected him that weekend. Her baby brother (Mum had named him Mikey) toddled around. Every time she said his name, she thought of *her* Michael.
She kept darting outside, scanning the street. He never came. At the shops, she overheard his mum complain—he was delayed, bringing a fiancée from where he’d been stationed.
Natalie cried into her pillow all night. At dawn, she left for the city.
Six months later, she met a man and married him. No one forced her. She didn’t even know why. Knew immediately it was a mistake. He looked down on her—*small-town girl, lucky he’d married her*. Nights with his mates, football and pints. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept it. Tried talking. He’d just say,
“Don’t like it? Door’s open. You won’t do better.”
No kids, thankfully. She left as she’d arrived. Work gave her a tiny bedsit—kitchenette included. Years later, she bought a flat. Mum, stepdad, and little Mikey visited, full of news. That’s how she learned Michael had divorced and come home—only to leave again, up North.
“You should remarry,” Mum said in the kitchen while the men slept. “Nice flat. Time for kids. Not still hung up on *him*, are you?”
“How’d you know?” Natalie snapped.
Men had shown interest, but she was shy—no nights out, no drinking or smoking. Nothing ever clicked. A relic, dreaming of old-fashioned love.
Little Mikey was grown now, married, moving to the city. Brought potatoes, pickles, jam. Stayed with her a week. His wife loved gossip—including updates on Michael (same street, after all).
“Came back two months ago—fancy car, flashing cash. Worked on ships, got discharged for health reasons. Stayed a month, then left. Bought a place here, they say.”
Natalie waited for more—anything about his wife—but her sister-in-law had moved on.
Now, everywhere—shops, tubes, streets—Natalie scanned faces, hoping. Once, she called out to a man who looked like him. He smiled, tried chatting. Wrong guy. She barely escaped.
After, she cursed herself—seeing him in every stranger, while he’d long forgotten her…
* * *
Summer arrived. Women in heels and bright dresses. Natalie scrutinised her reflection. A bit heavier, but fine. Could use a hair dye. Her face? Nothing to be done. Not like she could afford plastic surgery.
“Good thing Michael never sees me like this. Let him remember me young. *If* he remembers. Probably remarried.”
A salon trip—before she knew it, the stylist had chopped, coloured her hair auburn. The mirror stunned her. Looked fifteen years younger. She tipped him, beaming.
Walking home, she basked in glances—until new shoes blistered her feet. A bench, an ice cream, then she admitted defeat and headed for the tram.
Packed, even on a weekend. She stood the whole way, wincing. At her stop, as doors clattered open—someone called her name. She turned, but faces blurred.
“Oi, love—you getting off?” Irritated voices. Then her name again.
Deep in the tram, someone shoved toward the doors. But the crowd ejected her before she could see. The tram rolled away.
Had it been him? Probably not. Even if it was, he’d know her route now. Could find her if he wanted. *Would* he want? Doubtful. Time to move on.
Michael *had* recognised her. Tried pushing through—then some woman’s handbag snagged his shirt. By the time he freed himself, Natalie was gone. He craned for a glimpse through the windows.
Natalie… unchanged. Why had he *ever* tangled with that captain’s daughter? Lies, traps… And now he’d lost Natalie *again*.
Maybe not. Maybe life would give them one more chance. In a city this size, surely they’d cross paths?And as the autumn leaves scattered around them, Michael slipped his hand into hers once more, just like he had all those years ago in the cinema—finally, no need to wait.
