Still Waiting

She always saw him labor upon little leddings and trackings. No, not on the computer, but the tangible, cold hard metal that you put between metal stamps of letters. It's an old man's game, what he is doing. The art of type setting was big in the 1960s when printing was an extremely time consuming, labor intensive, intricate hand work. Nowadays, you've got design softwares to get you going fast and easy with that. He told her those digital crap just made designers sloppy. Type setting is not just an art form. No, it's a workmanship.

"I'm just old school," his eyes smiled through his glasses, but not toward her. "At least, i'm on my last paragraph and as soon as i get this done.. you know, printed and all cleaned, we can head out."

She replied with a sigh, "Fine, three hours." He got the car, and the weather had not been so kind to let her take the bus home. It's not like there's much choice for her, is there?

The clock ticked away. With every passing hours it's telling her that each hours she spent in silence with her type-setter boyfriend is a waste of time. It's a waste of her four years of high school to college life. She could have been in more exciting relationships with hotter guys she met in all those parties she attended without Rob. Tick tock tick tock. She could have had her saturday nights freed up to talk with people who are not 'type-setting-zoned' monsters. Tick tock tick tock. She could be just as single as she is now, yet feel so much better. Tick tock tick tock. How could someone loves tiny pieces of type, none bigger than my pinky's nail, more than a breathing, talking human being? Tick tock tick tock. He's not even talking to her all these while. She bet he would not even move if she stormed out. Tick tock tick tock.

Jane took the bus for two hours to go back home. If she was on the car with Rob, she'll be home dry and warm in thirty minutes. However, waiting for another minute on a guy who would not even look up from his 'labor of love' to say good bye to the girl he said he 'loved', is plain pathetic. She didn't care if he had the sweetest smile, or if his hands were always the warmest thing she could think of, or the fact that he could do the darnest acts of love. She was not going anywhere near him, she would not pick up his phone calls or listen to the messages he would leave at her voicemail, she wouldn't even look straight into his eyes to tell him what he did wrong. She had it.

-- a week had past now since the day she walked out of the type-setting studio. she had zero phone calls, zero messages, zero spotting of the man she once claimed hers. utter failure. life sucks, and she knows it by the handful.