At the old cafe of the abandoned bus station sits a waiting woman.
The air is thick and dusty, and so is the woman's silence. It smells of rotten wood, coffee beens and the passing of time. She sits at a table, sipping her coffee, tasting the emptiness of her sorroundings. Her back straight, her eyes unfocused, her movements soft. She dances to the sound of nothingness, a choreography frozen in time.
Sip, blink, pause, repeat.
Perfectly timed, timeless, waiting.
How long has she been there? What is she waiting for? Or who? Nobody knows.
You talk to her but she doesn't respond. You don't dare touch her out of fear of interrupting her dance.
Unmovable in her movements, she waits. Beautiful, regal, her porcelain skin glows in the darkness of the bus station. She waits. Somehow you know she will never stop waiting. Somehow you know she has never not waited.
She takes a sip. She blinks. She pauses. She repeats.
At the old cafe of the abandoned bus station sits a waiting woman, and now, that woman is you.
