Daily Prompt: Anticipation
There was a study conducted that suggests dogs know when their owner is coming home.
A psychic link between owner and owned. I feel like a dog now, at the window, waiting for you. Only I know you’re coming, because you told me so. My heart is hiccuping. I can’t stop my fingers from curling and twitching, tapping on my knee, tapping on the pane of glass, which rattles and squeaks because the corners are moldy. It’s starting to rain, and I knew I should have come for you, met you at the station, with an umbrella and coffee.
Yet, then I would not have this. These moments when I am sat at the window knowing you are coming, which is half the fun, half the love. Like building the fire, stick by stick, toilet roll tubes and old cereal boxes on top of damp November leaves. An initial spark deep in the mush, which catches with grey smoke, then builds into orange flames, which I would smell on your hair, even the next day, after your shower. This is love, the waiting, the expectation of your fingers, and the potential smoke of your hair.
There you are, you’ve turned the corner of my street, dancing along, on your feet, smiling absently because you don’t know I’m watching you from the window, waiting for you, like the owner and the owned.