“Will you wait for me?”
Time flies so fast. Before she knew it, nearly fifty years had slipped by. It felt like just yesterday she was forever young. Emily studied herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that. Nothing but disappointment stared back. *Love yourself at every age*, they say. Love *what*, exactly? The dark circles, the downturned mouth, the lines etched deep, the sadness in her eyes. Oh, better not look at such *beauty*.
She hadn’t spent her life hauling bricks or toiling in a factory—no, she’d sat in a warm, bright office, shuffling papers. Yet every year had left its mark.
Emily sighed. *What’s the point? Who even looks at me now? There are plenty of younger women. Calm down. Just breathe.* She sucked in a deep breath, then another. *So what if Michael’s back? He forgot me years ago. A lifetime’s passed since then…*
***
“Em, fancy the cinema?” Tom asked, flushing so hard his ears burned red.
“What’s playing?” She kept her voice indifferent, though her heart leapt at the invitation.
“Can’t remember the name, but the lads said it was good.”
“I like romances,” she mused, watching his face fall. “But alright, let’s go. When?”
“Now?” he blurted, hopeful.
Emily hesitated. No chores from Mum, homework could wait. She was at work—no permission needed.
“Alright,” she agreed.
The screening was quiet—midweek, daytime. The lights dimmed, explosions and car chases filled the screen. Emily stole a glance at Tom’s profile, sharp in the flickering light. He was mesmerised. Then, the hero rescued the girl—kissed her. Emily stiffened, cheeks burning. Tom was right there, watching it too.
Suddenly, he shifted closer, fingers brushing hers before covering her hand completely. Her pulse fluttered—she didn’t dare move. *Now. Now he’ll kiss me.* But no. More gunfire. Tom’s attention snapped back to the screen, leaving her hand trapped, breath held until the credits rolled.
Lights up. His grip loosened. She shivered, suddenly cold, buttoning her coat like armour against the loss.
Outside, winter dusk settled early. They walked home, Tom rambling about the film as if she hadn’t been beside him. Awkward silences yawned between his bursts of chatter. She waited, hoping he’d take her hand—but one held her schoolbag, the other gestured wildly.
At her gate, she stopped. Neither spoke.
“Shall I go?” She took her bag, fingers brushing the latch.
“Em—next time?” His voice was tight, braced for refusal.
She turned. Too dark to see his face, but she knew that fear.
“Yes!” Laughter masking relief, she fled inside.
They went again. And every time, the moment the lights dimmed, his hand found hers. Sometimes they just walked. Tom had left school last year—come spring, he’d be drafted. No uni, just helping his dad at the garage.
Once, he kissed the corner of her mouth. She’d feared he never would. Happiness, dizzy and bright, consumed her.
Then spring came, and he left.
The night before, a pebble struck her window. She threw on a coat, hurried out. He’d been drinking.
“I ship out tomorrow. Will you wait for me?”
“*Yes.*” The word scraped raw from her throat. How could he doubt it? There was no one else.
Her mother’s voice cut through—*Emily, inside!* She rose on tiptoe, pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, and ran.
Her father had drunk himself to death last winter. Mum had moved on fast. The house no longer felt like home. After graduation, Emily fled to the city—just an hour by train. Her mother hadn’t protested. Maybe she’d even sighed in relief. A wad of cash, a wave, and Emily was gone, clutching a single suitcase.
She crashed with a friend’s relatives, trained as a bookkeeper, scraped together rent.
Tom never promised letters. Didn’t think of it, or didn’t have time—what did it matter? She waited anyway. Visits home grew rare. One trip, she noticed her mother’s rounded belly. A pang—she’d be replaced. A stranger in her own family.
Forty wasn’t *old*, but none of her friends’ mothers had babies then. Shame curdled in her gut. She stopped going back.
Until Tom’s return.
A letter—*He’s coming this weekend.* Her baby brother, toddling now, bore his name. *Tommy.* Saying it aloud twisted the knife.
She paced the street, straining for a glimpse of him. He never came. At the shops, his mother sighed—*Delayed. Bringing a fiancée, some girl from his posting.*
That night, she sobbed into her pillow. At dawn, she fled back to the city.
Six months later, she married. Not love—something emptier. He sneered at her roots, at her *luck* in catching him. Football and pints with mates were his escape. She refused to endure it. No children, thank God. A clean break.
Work gave her a cramped bedsit—tiny, hers. Years later, a flat. Her mother visited, gushing news between sips of tea. Tom was back. Divorced. Gone north.
“You should remarry,” Mum said once the men dozed off. “You’ve got the flat. A baby, before it’s too late. The world doesn’t end with Tom.”
“How do you—?” Emily flared.
Men hovered, but she shrank from bars, from smoke, from hollow flirtation. Too old-fashioned, dreaming of love like the Brontës wrote.
Time betrayed her. Baby Tommy married, crashing at her flat with his new wife, hauling in jams and potatoes. His bride prattled village gossip—*Tom was back months ago. Big car, navy money. Medical discharge. Bought a flat here.*
Emily waited—did he remarry? But the girl had already moved on.
Now she scanned crowds, searching for him. Once, she mistook a stranger—his eager grin turned sour when she apologised. Foolish, chasing ghosts.
***
Summer at last. Women in sundresses, heels clicking. Emily scowled at her reflection. A little heavier, but not dreadful. Roots needed retouching. The face… Well, nothing to be done. Not like she could afford surgery.
A sigh. *Better Tom remembers me young. If he remembers at all.*
The salon transformed her—chopped, dyed auburn. A stranger, fifteen years younger, grinned back. She tipped the stylist, floated home, basking in glances from men.
Then the blisters hit. She limped to a bench, licked melting ice cream, but standing was agony. The tram it was.
PackShe never saw him again, but sometimes, when the evening light slanted just right, she could almost feel the ghost of his fingers brushing hers in that darkened cinema, long ago.
