She phoned him, as he had told her to. "I'm at the Half Moon Bay Dairy, can you come and pick me up?" "Sure." he said. "I'm in my car now, I won't be long." She walked to the roadside outside the store, and sat on the large rock feature on the curbside garden: a black coated figure in a grey stoned garden. And waited. She knew it would be sometime. He was always late. Sitting as the evening turned darker, thinking and remembering.
Backing her car out of the driveway, heavily pregnant. He was supposed to come home and take her to the hospital - she'd phoned him at work several times and told him she had to go - Doctor had said no later than 7pm but that time had come and long gone and he still wasn't home. Her car passed his along the street and she turned and followed him home, to get into his car to go to the hospital. He had excuses, of work and phonecalls. Waiting, it's what she did for years. Waiting as her blood dripped on the floor in heavy red splashes from the deep cut on her palm, waiting for him to finish his lunch before taking her to the hospital for stitching. Impatient, tearful, worried sick while he packed a bag of his clothes instead of driving straight to the hospital with the desperately sick child. Many points of wondering why he has the thought processes he has. And why she always felt like an afterthought, the one who could wait.
It was quite dark now, she looked up to see his car lights flying too fast past her and she sighed. He'd not listened or remembered even though she was were she always was when he'd come pick her up from the Ferry. She sat and waited for him to work out he'd gone to the wrong place to pick her up. A few minutes and his headlights slowly returned up the road to where she was. Smiling as she got into the car and his list of excuses he stopped at the look on her face. "what?" he asked. "Nothing." she said "Thankyou for coming to get me".