She was bitter. She wasn’t quite sure what the word meant at that age but that’s what she was. She would look back and could still vividly recall what it felt like. That particularly bitter sting of disappointment. Her father had promised to pick her up that day. Today would be they’re special day. She was ready. Hair done all pretty. Mama had made sure she looked as pretty as a picture. Little pink backpack strapped to her back with the pink and purple daises.She took up her declared post on the big, plush, couch, positioned right under the windows that covered the entire middle wall of the her mother’s apartment. She was ready.

She waited.

She waited for hours. Several hours later. When the sun had finally given up its victual with her, she accepted the bitter truth. He wasn’t coming. She wept. Big, bitter tears, that only children seem to convey, with such vicious passion. She was bitter but resigned. He had to have a reason. Her mother spoke to her. Tried to calm her down. She would later think that she could see both anger and heartbreak in her mother’s eyes. At the time all she saw was her own despair. She changed her clothes and put her bag away. Her father called later. Apologies and promises to make it up to her. Years later, now a grown woman. She would think back. She couldn’t recall if he had made it up to her. All she remembered was the day she’d spent on the couch. Waiting for the man that never showed.