Stranded By Him

It’s getting cold. I rub my hands to create friction and my feet feel like they’re no longer here. My ears hide behind my hair, sheltering from the breath of air that the wind throws at me. Seven-thirty-five on a Friday evening; I should be at home digging into a chicken burger. Somehow, I’m still here, stranded. Face it. He’s not coming. Thirteen minutes more of waiting in the cloud of cold. If only I’d listened to my mum and put on that ugly fluffy jacket, rather than going out in my top and jeans. “It’s fine, he’s picking me up.” But he’s just not. I’m still waiting here, still stranded. Even the bus doesn’t want to save me. Four minutes late and only now, it plods round the bend, pulling up beside me. Home. A ticket home. A ticket home to tell mum she was right. A ticket home never to come back. A ticket home because he wouldn’t help me. A ticket home to the warmth, never to be stranded ever again.