By: Aiman Pasha
The unceasing rain is only getting heavier as the boy in the yellow shirt stands, deluded, on the edge of the street. The sky is hazy, tinted with periwinkle hues and traces of dull white strokes that blend into the overcast. The shirt now clings to his pale skin, glowing as faint light from the headlights of cars graze over his eager figure. He glances at his starry night watch, 4:12 pm. The other was supposed to arrive at 4 pm, he’s 12 minutes late. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, clutching his phone in his hand. 15 missed calls, all met with an automated response that the receiver’s phone is powered off.
(Painting by Mike Barr)
His gaze follows the busy street, fingers now shaking, searching for any sign of the other. What’s taking so long? He told him he will wait near the old record shop, where is he? It’s been an hour now, a dark lining is slowly creeping over the still pouring sky. With each car that passes by, his stomach twists more and more. He checks his phone every few minutes, surely the other is just stuck in traffic or perhaps is running a quick errand, there must be a reason. They had a heated fight and made up over the phone after agreeing to meet, but why isn’t he showing up? His best friend of 9 years, they always make up after these petty fights. Like the time he accidentally broke the other boy’s bike handle and not even a few hours later they were in his backyard, faces lit up like neon signs and bodies abandoned to the merriment of the moment, or the time they went swimming in a nearby lake and fought over who could stay underwater the longest, only to break into an impulsive water fight laced with endless laughter.
Slowly, a tear slips down his cold, red cheek. He can’t move from in front of that record shop, what if he leaves and the other comes right then? No, he can’t afford to disappoint him like that.
Gently, the street is lighting up, the shops are coming alive as the sky gets darker, people now shuffle past him with clear umbrellas over their heads, the world moves fast but for him, it’s only devastatingly slow. The rain is still making his vision blurry, he’s now shivering under the open sky as he feels his body get heavier.
‘Hey kid?’ a soft voice calls out behind him as the door to the record shop opens, ‘come inside, you’ll get sick.’, he says, placing his hand on the shoulder of the boy in the yellow shirt, trying to turn him around.
‘No thank you, sir! My friend will be here soon.’
The old shop owner sighs, they have had this conversation so many times before but it never gets easier.
‘Kid, he won’t come. It’s been five years now and every year you are standing here waiting for him. It’s time to let go. I hope you don’t forget that giving up decisively also counts as courage.’
But he can’t let go. He can never let go.
(Image source: unknown)
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