Lady in Waiting
Wait and let Time go by/till my change come.
-Thomas Hardy, from “Waiting Both”
The day is fading, and I am glued to the corner of Third Avenue waiting for a friend. She is uncharacteristically late, and I am afraid that I’ve sent her on a circuitous route to dinner, but I stand firmly, head turned uptown, diligently scanning the crowd for her face. Behind me is a metallic sign posting the restaurant’s current offerings, and I grasp it with one hand as I search; a small support in the perpetual movement of children, dogs, and scattered bodies marching in the dusk.
The longer my eyes skim over the wave of unfamiliar faces, the harder it becomes to focus on anyone. People look sharp, voices on cell phones begin to sound distant, and the relentless heat seeps down my shirt. I attempt to blink through the haze, feeling the pole behind me, reminding myself that I am standing on a very familiar corner, secured to the ground through my grip on the sign. Minutes are passing.
There’s something about waiting that I find troubling. Long lines are more painful than standing-by-circumstance, but they’re both imbued with the sense of being trapped, and should an attack find its way to my body, I fear I’ll be forced to fend off my demons in front of a watchful crowd. In this way, the waiting and the feelings have become intertwined — which came first, the panic or the waiting? Do I fear waiting due to past effects of the disorder, or does the disorder affect my perception of waiting? A child’s innocent question, and no simple answer.
My friend arrives, and within minutes we are inside the restaurant sipping at mango margaritas. The conversation from the bar blends with the blaring music, but I almost don’t mind the thick noise - I am sitting with my back against a wall, finally sheathed from the flow of the Avenue.