Without thinking, she started smoking the day he left, nearly thirty years ago. It was just something to do when he walked away. She constantly sat at the window, hoping, peering, and smoking. One cigarette lit from the other, with the smoke dragged deep into her lungs. Everyone said that was a bad thing to do, but she still smoked, and most of them had passed away. She kept her hand outside to let the smoke drift into the clouds and considered it a signal, a beacon he could follow home. The ash burned close and scarred her fingers, so little pain remained. The pain was all in her heart.
It was not always like that. They were cheerful, loving people caught up in a carousel of mid-life love. Then, he began lying and continued to compound the lies. She was afraid of the truth; he had little regard for it. He met the other woman in their own home. There was a party for his forty-seventh birthday. A cake was baked, songs were sung, drinks were drunk, and somehow, he and this other woman were unseen for a while.
After he left, not saying much, just packing a small suitcase and his old Army duffle bag, she would stand in his closet among the hung clothes and ask herself softly, “Why? What did I do wrong?” Then she would sink to the floor and cry among the old shoes he didn’t bother to pack. He left his bowling trophies, magazines, a few used tissues in his bathroom wastebasket, and a fishing rod. He took the unopened bottle of whiskey from the kitchen cabinet and his favorite ball cap from the hook behind the door.
There was still a lot of him left in the house, and she washed, ironed, dusted, and polished so that it would be perfect when he returned. It’s still perfect today. She could not do those things that required his strength or skills and had to hire help. As the years added up and the money ran down, fewer of these things were done. But she knew in her heart that he would make quick work of that when he returned, which was why she waited so patiently. She knew they would dance again in their stocking feet on the linoleum floor. Sit on the porch swing and watch the distant thunderclouds. Get another dog. All the things they did before, she never doubted they would do again.
She smoked and waited, and sometimes, she would see a man approach, but it was only an illusion. She kept the window clean and bought prescription glasses at Walmart to better see him from afar as he strutted down the street head high, shoulders back, handsome as hell—her man. Then she will rise from the window, throw out the cigarette, and rush to the bathroom for mouthwash and a hairbrush.
“Wait! Is that him?” She rubbed her eyes and cleaned her glasses. Maybe. Maybe. A man parked in front at the end of the driveway. He didn’t get out right away, but sat there. He’s teasing me, she thought, like he so often did. She chuckled at the memories. He was such a card. That last Christmas, he dressed in a Santa suit and climbed on the roof while she danced joyfully in the yard, then hugged and kissed him when he was safely on the ground.
Her breath came in shorter grabs as the car door opened, and the man, her man, got out. She was so sure. He was tall, not as much as before, but that was only natural; it had been many years. But he was dark-haired still and had the same purposeful gait. She dropped the cigarette and waited, unsure what to say as he approached. The door was always unlocked in case he had lost his key. He opened the picket fence gate and stepped forward on the brick walk, crushing the weeds with his shoes. “Oh, God!” She clutched at her dress as the anticipation flooded her like an ocean wave. She couldn’t speak, but she would struggle up and hug him to pieces.
He stopped at the door, attached a Foreclosure Notice and left.
Image: An ashtray filled with cigarette ends crushed and one still burning from Pixabay.com
literally stories 
One afraid of truth the other having no respect for it is a plain and great observation.
I believe this is the last of Ed’s work with us. But, like everyone, he lives on in the archives.
Leila
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I really did enjoy this.
You want to slap the MC for hanging on in there when there was fuck all to hang on to.
The ending was brutal and was a brilliant opposite of the romance that she felt.
This throws naivety to the kerb!!
Loved it!!
It’s been a pleasure seeing these brilliant stories of Ed’s on the site!!!!
Hugh
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Another very, very fine last line.
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A sad story of someone unable to accept reality. Hope springs eternal and all that. Well written, emotional and as has been said a knife blade of a last line. dd
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So powerful, & restrained with it, the ache of such loss – & her delusion – driven home by such lines as “Then she would sink to the floor and cry among the old shoes…” ; & her buying of those spectacles “to better see him from afar” ; her whole situation summed up in that “hoping, peering, and smoking” (a title in itself). And the door “always unlocked in case he lost his key.” Tremendous.
Geraint
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She reminds me very much of one of James Joyce’s emotionally and spiritually paralyzed characters from DUBLINERS, and that’s high praise indeed. The simple, basic, yet rhythmic and poetic prose is also Joycean. Poetic because it condenses her whole life down into a few words.
Perhaps she’s not really waiting for “him,” but is waiting for life itself to return. The Foreclosure Man is driving toward all of us even as we speak, we simply don’t know exactly when. Many try to totally ignore it and do a very good job of this; some of us spread Bibles and spiritual writings all around our room because the fear sometimes seems too deep, and how could anything else matter other than this unavoidable fact. “Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” – Oscar Wilde
Or like the Arabic tale of the man who tried to outride death, and he rode on his horse across the desert escaping death, until he looked down to see that the horse he rode was completely white, and we all know what the white horse means.
But the universe never really stops. Every time something ends, something else begins. Like the butterfly’s wings that stir the wind on the other side of the ocean. Family members disappear. But somehow, they also do return. Maybe they don’t look the same. But somehow, they’re there. At some point we’ll realize that death is a release. Freedom at last!
“I write for children and angels.” – William Blake……..
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He cheated on her and then she cheated herself out of living her life. Maybe, sometimes, not forgiving is the lesser of two evils. Good flash.
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Lovely story. Great use of excellent narration to show time, and believable, sad ending,
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I envisoned him returning when she was sick or dead from cancer. As someone who has had his heart broken a couple of times who might have broken a heart, I would not wish her fait on anyone. Good, but depressing story.
Much has been written about misperception of the love object. It is a sad condition.
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To Ed’s Spirit
I liked how you created tension. There was a feeling of desperation and hope. Shown through all the cleaning and making things perfect for his return. I think that’s a pretty good illustration of “Showing and not telling.” Glad I read this to help with my ongoing discourse of writing.
I also noticed you didn’t name either character. She/Mc & he/him. And it worked. I think I’m always in some kind of name game with my characters. I write in first person a lot. One less person to define… I don’t think names are just semantics either, sometimes “a rose is a rose…” is not a rose, when it comes to a character’s name. A character’s name has to somehow fit them. Be a symbol of who they really are beyond a Bob, Dick or Harriet. How they dress is showing who they are at least on the surface. But it’s their deeds and misdeeds that really name them. HE actually fits this guy pretty well.
It definitely hooked me to find out what was going to happen? That’s the main job right there… Hooking the reader. I thought maybe it would be his son from this other sneaky woman. Or maybe a twist on the “Monkey’s Paw” or something. The ending really shocked me. Big time! That was better and almost worse than anything.
I have to say I’m a fan of your writing!
Christopher
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This is a poignant and heart-wrenching story of loss and longing. Her habit of smoking, her constant watch, and the pain she carries in her heart are palpable. It’s a powerful depiction of the lasting impact of heartbreak.
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A great story, both full of woe and hope, with a sucker punch ending. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading Ed’s prose over these recent posts. In fact, and perhaps I’m overstepping here, but the beauty of art, in this case writing, is that it connects us, and although I never knew Ed I feel genuine sadness at his passing as, through his writing, I’ve got to know him a little.
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