Regretful Hearts or The Only One who was Never Beautiful

It’s strange, the feeling of not waiting anymore.

The average person spends 7 years of their life waiting, you know. Out of my 61, that seems slightly unsurprising. Back then I would have waited for anything – for the traffic, for the receptionist, for the phone call. When I was younger I was lovely – not beautiful, for beauty was exclusively for those in love – but lovely. I used to look coquettish and mysterious, with large, dark eyes, with rosebud lips.

I waited around for anything that would crawl after me. It was in this, of course, that I found my mistakes. My first mistake was when I was seventeen – he was tall, blond, and insensitive. My second mistake was short, rich, and lazy. My third mistake was dark-headed, artistic, and full of shit. My fourth mistake was not learning from the previous mistakes. So of course they continued. Of course they would trail around like a many-linked chain tied to my ankle, tripping me and becoming increasingly inconvenient.

They each professed, “I love you” – right on cue, each and every one. They didn’t really need to. I never asked. I never asked them to lie – after all, I never said I loved any one of them. But I suppose they felt guilty. Although it was my fault, really. Of course.

But I aged. I aged, and that chain dropped away as my reluctance to play games swelled. And because of my most recent mistake at the time, I had a child, at the ripe old age of 22.

Her name was Isabelle. I loved her dearly, but never as a person – as a pretty plaything, as a pet to be coddled. I cared for her well, and she was rarely unhappy, though going through the petty nuances of childhood and then adolescence, as was expected. And when she slipped through my fingers it was with little regret that I blinked and realized she was grown.

I came to realize that there was little for which I could wait anymore. No man, no child, no person within. I could not wait for my humanity to appear, could not wait for the eager ring of the telephone beside me, with a handsome fellow inside it waiting for me in return.

But then – one day, at the start of my 40th year on this earth, I entered my place of work, Nobel’s Grille – and there was Victor.

He stood behind the stove with a whisk in his hand and a hat on his head and a gleam in his dark eyes. Under inquiry, he was 34 and unmarried. And I waited for something – anything – a smile, a word, my name from his lips. And for the first time, nothing happened.

I had never pursued anything that lived or breathed. And I had never thought I would need to. But when I looked in the mirror at the age of 40, I realized that things would no longer come to me, not health, nor happiness, nor, of course, a man – a Victor.

Victor was quiet. He was an introvert with a small smile and a lot of thinking, apparently, to do. I took care to strike up conversations. I took care to step slowly. I took care to remain detached – just in case this what-I-viewed-to-be-temporary lull in male interest did not suddenly ignite.

And yet, I fell in love.

Woeful love. Pathetic love. Love for his crooked second finger that would push up his glasses, love for his laugh that sounded like an embarrassed explosion, love for everything that made me love him, love for each part that comprised his gorgeous mind.

And though there was nothing to wait for, no advance – I found myself waiting. Drudging through each day waiting for a glimpse, waiting for something to help me convince myself that I had an inkling of a chance. I waited for years. Waited until my dark hair needed dyeing and until the lines around his eyes had faded into permanence. Waited until Isabelle had graduated from medical school on a full scholarship.

I found myself 60 and so lonely. I stubbornly clung to my long hair, still vibrantly auburn thanks to the experts over at Clairol.

Isabelle got engaged. I got a sheet of beige paper in the mail and staggered to my table to read it, in utter shock, in green unutterable unbelievable jealousy. Isabelle was getting married. Isabelle had a fiancée and a lover and someone who said “I love you”.

I stared at it, rereading the warm glow that leapt in waves from the paper, feeling the happiness, and very blandly ran it through the shredder. And then my feet walked themselves to my room and I fell into my bed and I sobbed like I was young and had license to once more. Pangs of envy and of pure, unadulterated, unchecked sorrow pulsed through my body. I jerked and curled and opened my mouth to let tiny noises be as loud as they could manage. I pressed my hands to my soft, wrinkled face and shoved away my tears, shoved away my loneliness.

But the next day, I waited once more. I was so sick of it – my deference to what this world had to offer me – yet I could do no more.

On my 61st birthday later that week, four months ago, Victor asked me, “What’s wrong, Hailey?”

I said, “Nothing,” as if it were true. And yet when he met my eyes I could tell he knew I was lying. And in that instant a warm rush of blood resounded through my fingertips and up to my brain. His face, lined and inquisitive, could not be more beautiful.

I smiled sadly and turned back to my desk.

Today, I woke up feeling unusual. A certain vigor surged through me, and I placed onto my worn feet a pair of equally worn shoes, low black heels.

I walked from my car into the restaurant with deep breaths, looking at the grey sky with something more than usual.

“You look great today,” called Victor from the back oven. “Why the cheer?”

I asked him to come into my office for a second.

He’s in front of me, tall and lean and aged.

It’s strange, the feeling of not waiting anymore.

I know I’m going to say it. My mouth is open. And yet I know it’ll be strange, to do something independently and without cue. I’m standing opposite him, mere feet from him, and

“I love you,” I’m saying.

And somehow, it’s done. The shortest climax after a 21-year buildup I could possibly imagine.

Victor is looking slightly puzzled. I don’t know why he has no response.

Suddenly, icy dread is flooding my veins. He’s opening his mouth with his eyebrows furrowed – never a good thing – and

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks.

I’m speechless, of course. I’m twisting the watch on my left wrist around and around and around. I can’t meet his eyes.

“Hailey. I can only tell you I love you when you tell me what took you so damn long,” he says quietly.

I look up at him, but I don’t feel like I’ve won a victory. I feel exhausted and old.

“I – I can’t,” I say flatly, finally meeting his eyes. “Because I don’t know.”

He’s doing something funny with his mouth, still looking puzzled.

“I could make something up, if you like,” I suggest.

Victor laughs, “Don’t worry about it. Because I don’t really have a reason either.”

There is absolute silence and I walk towards him.

Out of every time I’ve ever touched a man, the arms I place around him now are the only arms that have ever had a heart behind them.

I don’t even feel any regret about not saying anything earlier, because now everything is right. Everything is perfect. And Isabelle will see me at her wedding with a man – a man who has never told me he loves me, but the only one who has shown me he does.

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Thanks for reading. A harsh critique would be much appreciated in this case.