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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required waiting there were oatmeal cookies on the counter. only three left of the dozen she made just before the pot on the stove moaned, weeping that her coffee was done. dark and bitter, sugarless and of course no cream to embezzle the deep black that made her coffee as mysterious as it was steaming hot. chatter from the tv set was more hazy than the stale air it cut through; crawling from the living room, past the sleeping cat, onto the counter beside the once soft, now brittle cookies. only the canned laughter from an over-played sitcom was distinguishable —and quite inappropriate— for a solemn mid-week day, wednesday in april half-way between the start of passover and celebration of easter. rarely did she wear a bow in her hair— especially her favorite, orange with yellow stripes— her dress was soft green a nice color for spring, she thought. she sat properly on a dark brown metal folding chair closer to the partially opened front door than to the aging cookies on her kitchen counter. she wore a metal clip that made her feel comfortable; assured it would not slip from her hair even if she sneezed. the sound of the clock on the wall seemed to drown out the chatter of the evening news as each passing minute brought her closer —then took her farther away— from the appointed time he was to arrive. paper napkins and half-burnt candles were in place on top of the small round table covered with a blue fabric that was once a sheet but with age had become a tablecloth. no one wondered if the stains were from the bedroom or the kitchen. the moon was full as it should be on a wednesday half-way between passover and easter; like a shiny, polished mirror hanging on a single nail displayed as a trophy in a case filled with gems. ‘supper at five.’ she had said and ‘supper at five’, he agreed. that was before he changed his shirt and couldn’t find a green one. finally, he gave up and quit looking, thinking, ‘now i suppose she knows i’m not coming.’ there were oatmeal cookies on the counter, only two left of the dozen she made. the coffee was dark and bitter, sugarless and of course no cream to embezzle the deep black. she removed the bow from her hair and sneezed —for some reason she always sneezed when she removed her bow— then she looked at the stain on the sheet and remembered the night when her smile had made her as mysterious as the coffee. tolbert
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