She sits on the stairwell outside,
in one of the grayest evenings
I’ve seen in a while.
The humidity is atrocious,
she’s breathing liquid air

Waiting,
but there she sits.

Ready for the guy she met In the dairy isle
to whisk her away to expensive pasta and wine.
She’s been outside a good half-hour

Waiting,
but there she sits.

Her slumped head in her knees
says she’s loosing patience
as she wipes away some tears of self-doubt.
I wonder why she doesn’t call the guy.

Waiting,
there she sits.

With each passing car
turning in the parking lot
we share the same thought,
hoping it’s him.
As each car picks up friends or parks
our hearts slump lower into our stomachs.