Page 130 of Intermission
He’s forgotten me.
He’ll be here.
He’s forgotten me.
I check my phone.
8:09.
I cap my empty bottle and stand.
Pace.
People change. Just because someone was unfailingly prompt two years ago, doesn’t mean they’ve kept the habit.
8:16.
My phone emits three loud beeps, startling an unnaturally high-pitched bark from Janey. In turn, her bark causes me to almost drop my phone.
The battery icon blinks at me, empty. The display blackens, but I don’t need to see the numbers to know what they would have said within seconds, anyway.
“Well, Janey,” I whisper, “I guess he’s not coming.”
I need to sit down, and do—right where I stand.
Cross-legged on the rocky creek bed, the phone rests between my hand and head as if it can support the weight of my loss.
Blackout.
And,scene.
An intermission is supposed to give the actors a chance to recoup, to change costumes, to get ready for the second act and its climactic resolution. But the curtain is up. Act II is in motion, and I am...
I am alone.
This is not the script I wanted.
Noah.
I thought his heart was seared to my heart. His dreams to my dreams.
I was wrong.
Oh, God. This hurts. Ithurts. Why?
Why?
I did not audition for a one-woman show.
“Noah.” His name is a moan, an ache, a death. “You said you would come.”
I unzip a pocket on my backpack and drop the useless phone inside.
Useless.
Inútil, in Spanish.
I draw my knees up, tight to my chest.
