When the day comes she knows she will be here waiting for it, as she has been waiting for it all her life. Her life just seems to have happened to her, often seemingly without her ever having any say in it, but she knows that when that day comes it will all be different.
She used to expect some tall dark handsome stranger to appear in her life and whisk her off to some new place; some new land even, somewhere exotic where dark-eyed women would watch her and her handsome stranger from behind veils and diaphanous curtains, all wishing that they could be her.
Instead, her husband fell into her life out of the chaos and bewilderment of drunken nights out and parties held in darkened houses throbbing with the bass-lines of songs she never learnt the words for.
Soon, somehow, she ended up a wife and mother, doing all the wife and mother things as though she was some understudy for some other woman whose role had been left for her to temporarily fill.
Sometimes, she would look at her husband, and her children, and recognise them as hers and see the shapes in their lives that she made all around them. Mostly, though, they seemed like strangers, people she was sharing this Waiting Room Life with, while she was waiting for her day to come.
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