AUTHOR'S NOTE: Due to popular suggestion (and by "popular" I mean the few who reviewed my story ;P), I have decided to write a second chapter to my story...yes, a very long time later. I warn you, though: it's an EPILOGUE, which means "the end, I swear." I hope you like it, because I like it! I typed up the first draft and kind of forgot about it, until now. Heheh. I hope it does the whole story justice. I was contemplating submitting this as a separate story, and then people could link the two if they wanted, but then I'd have to give more backstory, blah blah...oh well, I can always change my mind.
The doorbell rang at exactly two.
(We had planned this meeting two days ago last week because the both of us were busy until then.)
It was the phone call, really, that had restarted my life: I apologized and poured my tattered heart to him; he accepted it as tearfully and had some confessions to offer as well.
I do realize that I had reacted quite dramatically to our separation. It really was something out of a soap opera. Who needed the tears and the depression? But of course this is the view of a person that had tripped out of love and was approaching its path once again.
By six o' clock in the morning on THE day I was on my hands and knees, cleaning every crevice of my house despite the fact that we'd be eating out. Nineties love songs blared out of my speakers, and I painfully admit that I crooned passionately along to every "I love you baby"—I just couldn't wait to see him.
Then it was eight o' clock in the morning, and I decided spontaneously that I did not like the outfit I had gotten the day before; I needed something much simpler, something that I thought didn't cry "I've been so lost without you—please take me back!" So I stopped by the mall and bought this cute little white blouse that I thought would make me look positively heavenly. Then I ran to the shoe store to buy myself a pair of sandals because I thought my pumps were too frilly. (Besides, I always thought heels were a little pretentious.)
After my impulsive shopping spree (I decided that, since I was there, I might as well buy some other things too) it was about eleven forty-five, and I began to freak out because I wasn't sure if two and a quarter hours was enough time to get ready and get calm. I hastily snipped the tags off my clothes and, after spending about an hour to make sure my makeup and hair looked as natural and relaxed as possible, ran around the house like a maniac to make sure everything was in place—and can I remind you that we weren't even going to be in the house when he came?
It was ten to two, and I was getting really restless. By this time I had checked my outfit for stray threads a few times and rolled lots of imaginary lint off as well.
Now that my mind wasn't being occupied with "natural" makeup and blouses (blice?) and hair irons, I could only think of him.
Will he like how I look?
Am I too overdone?
What will he look like?
Will he be overdone?
What if we were going somewhere fancy, and we had to dress up? No, no—he wouldn't do that. Would he?
I decided then that thinking about him wasn't a good idea, so I got up to the kitchen to get myself a glass of ice cold water, but I somehow ended up with a mug of hot lemon water, which was just as good.
Then it was the final three minutes, and I swear everything went quiet—even my mind—and I was on the couch, purse at my side, feet flat on the rug, staring at the clock, the second hand ticking, echoing in my head. Inaudible memories of green fields, yellow Pokémon, pink ice cream, purple mountains tapped at my mind and I closed my eyes.
The mini grandfather clock struck two, and the doorbell rang after the last ding!
My eyes opened slowly, and I was perfectly calm but my heart still hummed with excitement.
----
I open the door. It is a few seconds after two now and he is standing there, eagerly, honestly. He has no bouquet in his hand but a delicate six-petal flower—sherbet orange—that I know he picked from a field west of my city.
We are quiet, almost wordless. There are only our smiles and the flower that he says matches my outfit perfectly (he noticed!).
I take the flower and accept his extended arm. We walk out that way, hand-on-arm, like we are walking into a room of dancing people with evening gowns and top hats.
There is a lot to talk about, and I know this time we'll listen.