Most important

Анна ШУВАЛОВА | Проза


Most important

— I don’t want to hear it! I stood here waiting for you and you were not only late, but didn’t even call! — yelled the girl at the young man standing across from her.

— I told you, there was traffic everywhere, that’s why we couldn’t go any faster.  My phone battery died.  I had no way of calling, — he attempted to explain.

— Of course, you will always find an excuse, but couldn’t care less about me! First learn how to lie, then you can bring me your sob stories and they’ll look better, — she continued, unappeased.

— I’m not excusing myself, I’m explaining why I was late.  And I was only 10 minutes late. Just 10 minutes, — the young man continued his vain efforts to vindicate himself.

— Just 10 minutes! Do you have any idea how I feel? No, tell me, do you understand how I feel? — the girl raised her voice. — And I don’t want your flowers! You don’t get anything! Nothing. I was here waiting for you and you!

I was standing at the bus stop awaiting my ride and watching this scene escalate.  I couldn’t understand for the life of me, why people have to yell in the middle of the sidewalk and hash it out in public.  Step off to the side and calmly talk it over.  Or even better, deal with it at home where you can see eye to eye.

My bus drove up and I got on, without finding out how the story which had begun to unfold before me ended.  Having secured myself a window-seat, I pondered  the different ways we all might react to the same things.  I myself am always running late.  Not by design, the chips just fall that way.  Even if I start to get ready two hours before its time to leave, I’m still late. I don’t know why it works out that way. And I feel awkward for keeping people waiting.  That is why I can’t demand punctuality of others. I wait patiently. And you never find out what held them. And you have to admit, you can’t always call ahead to warn that you’ll be late. I much prefer waiting for their arrival to determine what happened.  Then I’m genuinely glad that they made it after all and everything is ok, with everyone safe and sound. As I see it, this is much more important.  Especially since the meeting took place either way. The only exceptions in my life are long distance train trips, plane trips and bus rides. In such cases I get ready three-four hours before departure, instead of two, so I definitely make it on time.  The fear of being late drives me to mobilize all of my strength, in order to make it on time, since nobody is going to wait for me. Although honestly, I have still been late on occasion.  Then I had to look for an exit out of the situation I found myself in, work my way out of it.

On my way home, I remembered a certain instance from not long ago. You and I had agreed to go to the theater together and bought tickets to a show that interested us both. I spent so much time preparing for the long-awaited event, since it had been so long since we had gone out together.  You were so busy at work that you couldn’t pick me up and we set up to meet at the theater entrance.  Per usual, I had the tickets.  I showed up 15 minutes late, but, knowing my unique talent, I always give myself enough time to keep it from effecting anyone else.  This particular time, we had half an hour before the beginning of the show.  But you were nowhere to be seen.  I waited. 10 minutes before the opening, I entered the theater.  Apparently, you were so busy at work that you couldn’t get away or call ahead.  I left my coat in the checkroom, went into the auditorium and took my seat.  I placed my bag on the seat where you were supposed to be.  I really wanted you to make it, at least for the second act.  I put my phone on silent mode.  Suddenly, a thought crept into my head that maybe something had happened to your car on the road, but I quickly banished those thoughts.  You’re ok, you’ll be here soon. Lights out, curtain up, the show began.  I stowed my phone in my bag, to avoid worry and proceeded to watch the play.

At intermission, the first thing I did was grab my phone. Nothing. No messages, no calls. An absolutely blank screen.  I decided to call and find out what was up. But you didn’t pick up. You must be busy or too tired to go to some theater and watch another play, even with me.  I hope that when I get home you’ll be there waiting.

But you weren’t home either.  On opening the door and entering the apartment, I was met by darkness and silence.  No calls, no messages.  I kept calm, convinced that everything was fine and there was a simple explanation.

You returned when the clock hands got near midnight.  The first thing I did when you came into the entry way was hug you and hold you as tight as I could. I was overjoyed that you had come.  You had come alive, safe and sound. I didn’t care about the wasted theater ticket, the fact that I sat through it alone, that you didn’t call. The most important part was that you came.  What was the difference how many seconds, minutes, hours late you were?

We’ll have other trips to the theater, the movies, wherever we want. For me that was the best part; knowing that the best is still ahead.

Then you told me that you had actually been in an accident, but, fortunately, nothing serious, but there was no opportunity to contact me.  So that thought flying through my head was correct.  Good thing I brushed it off without allowing it to draw any negative events into my life.

On exiting the bus, I hurried homewards.  I knew you had already come, but I wanted to see you so badly, hug you, touch you and feel your heartbeat, when I press my cheek against your chest.  I wanted to make sure you were near.

That evening, having finished my work, I left the office and went into the bedroom.  You were lying on the bed, reading a book. I had a flashback to my childhood, when I loved climbing up onto the bed with my mother, while she would read.  I would scoot up beside her and read along.  I didn’t care what book it was or whether I was reading from the beginning. All I cared about was the fact that I could do something with her.

I came up to the bed and cozily placed myself next to you and joined in on reading your book.

— What are you doing? — you asked me.

— Reading a book, — I replied.

— Is it interesting? — you inquired curiously.

— Very, — I answered.

— You don’t mind starting in the middle, without knowing any of the plot? — you said.

— Nope.  This way is fine too. Then, you read it from the very beginning, even though you remembered everything to that point perfectly. If I don’t understand something, I stop and ask and you tell me everything.

About the author:

Anna Shuvalova, born in Vladimir, May 11, 1981.  I teach foreign languages.  Since 2009 I have been writing.  In 2011 my first story collection called «Dreams» came to light.  Since then I have published another story collection, «I Break Habits», a children’s collection, «Seven Children’s Desires», the dilogy, «Waiting» and «In These Hands», the tales «Upstream», «True Man», «Where We Are Not».  My key genre of focus is sentimental-philosophical prose. 

Рассказать о прочитанном в социальных сетях:

Подписка на обновления интернет-версии журнала «Российский колокол»:

Читатели @roskolokol
Подписка через почту

Введите ваш email:

eşya depolama
uluslararası evden eve nakliyat
evden eve nakliyat
uluslararası evden eve nakliyat
sarıyer evden eve nakliyat