Waiting

Something of a strange night. Worked for most of it. The Red Sox beat the Indians, pushing another game. England, regrettably, failed to secure the rugby world cup. In the midst of all this, a colleague dropped his bussing basket on the dance floor, threw his arms up, and danced. He danced and danced until other people started dancing too. I just smiled, a lot. And danced around the perimeter of the room grabbing people’s empty glasses from under their noses, twirling away, grab, twirl, grab, twirl.

I waited, tonight. (Tables). But I am also waiting. There’s an unreality to this particular time: I feel suspended. A friend the other night said it best, “it’s not real”, and though it is, it isn’t, because I’m pushing toward something truly good, a few months away, like the little creature in the book Watching who waits for his tree to sprout.

Hell, I’m tired. Spent a good hour in the middle of my shift reading Dorothy Sayers (and getting paid for it) but still feel as if I’ve been on my feet for eight hours, which, that scrap of reading time notwithstanding, I really have. Off to bed then. Off to bed.