The Waiting Line

It doesn’t really happen like that does it? That reticent tint of sepia, the sea breeze flowing through your hair while you stare out at waves crashing cliff-sides, thinking how adequately they reflect life’s betrayals. No. Life is far from that. The sadness creeps in like a pungent smell of damp carpets kept locked in a dormant apartment.

Remembrance hits you square in the face and hard. Like when you’re in the back of a que at McDonald’s, vaguely staring at the fat kid trying to make busy before molesting the inside of his happy meal. The fluorescent lights reflect off of a Mickey Mouse watch and you find yourself transported back to that time it was raining and you took shelter in the Disney store.

You waded through the aisles full of fantasy and glitter, catching smiles and furtive glances. Persistent children ran between you, unnoticed, unobservant. There you were, prince and princess, commoners amidst the masses, glowing in a modern rendition of happily ever after.

Ever. After. Punctuation, like reality, changes everything. The rain stops. The store closes. The idea of forever seems as distant a prospect as dueling dragons.

Now there’s one towel on the rack, microwave meals, and a single depression on the pillow at sunrise.

Neverland? Never mind.

I’ll be fine.

An excited child bumps into you from behind and you’re brought back. You haven’t moved an inch. But that’s okay. You were fated to be right where you are; in the waiting line.

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