Sample Sunday: Waiting
He sits on the front pew, by the far aisle, in a church that lies abandoned on the backstreets that lead away from deserted boulevards and dragon-adorned courtyards. He sits in a crumpled grey suit and washed-out baby-blue shirt. The church is an empty space but for him. The sleeves are too short on his jacket and the trousers are too tight at the knees. You can see the stitching has frayed, becoming somewhat shabby and loose in places. He tugs at the cuffs with delicately manicured fingertips. A breath of exasperation escapes him and he crosses then re-crosses his legs. He is tired of all this waiting. You cannot see his face, not because the church interior is a dim gloaming of sepulchral stone and not because the light filtering through the windows is an obscuring schizophrenia of tainted colours.
The reason you cannot see his face is because he is wearing a mask.
It has two politely curving horns and you can see where the red paint has thinned out over the years, newspaper print showing through here and there. You can also see the smile, the way the papier-mâché lips curve, ever so slightly and ever so politely. He's a gentleman at a soiree, sharing a sly, underhanded joke with you. He sits where he sits, by the aisle, in the pews, not saying a word, simply waiting. The eyes of the face under the mask are old, wise and bright. He checks his watch, a second-hand purchase telling him a time that is not the time. Whoever he is waiting for, this man, they are late, very late. He tugs at his cuffs with those delicately manicured fingertips and a breath of exasperation escapes him once more. The eyes in the mask catch the light of a memorial candle. Those eyes, those old bright eyes.
You had better not keep him waiting long.
END
© G.R. Yeates 2011
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