by z.mccann

Created on: January 15, 2007   Last Updated: November 21, 2007

Late Home

The door swung on its hinge. Tom shook off his wet coat, the house was dark; the food left out for him, cold. Where was she? For the third night that week she was late. Was it work? What if? Best not to think. He'd just wait, in the big chair by the fire, watch the clock and wait.

Long past eight and still no sign, did she not know what she did to him, how she made him think, as the clock struck nine? He'd been the one man in her life for so long. Where was she?

The sound of keys in the lock at last, it was near on ten. He knew it was her, he knew her sound. "Tom!" He would not move. He would not greet her. "Tom" she called once more, "Tom, are you in?" She would have to come to him. "There you are." He turned his face from her as she bent, "How's my best cat?" she said.

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