Will I see her again?

A strange moment  yesterday. While sitting in a hovel.  A waiting room. Waiting. Waiting. With my Italian true love. Waiting to pay her property tax bill. Almost like waiting in line. At a bank. To give the teller one’s money.  One waits in Italy. Sometimes for hours. At the post office. The doctor’s office. The grocery store. Everywhere. One needs patience. And not everyone has it. I do. Because I’m waiting with my Italian true love. And I’m experiencing life in Italy. Real life. Like an Italian.  An opportunity for me to study. To observe.  A waiting room. This one unique. Narrow. Dingy. Must have once been a hallway. Lined with six plastic armchairs. Facing three wood doors. With glazed glass windows. To make for a blurry, shadowy view.  I wonder. If this is a waiting place for a Kafka-like novel to unfold. Maybe an interrogator on the other side of the door.  My true love must wait in line. Two ahead.  A light. A bare bulb. Lighting the Spartan room. A somber, dull effect. I cross my leg. My foot dangles. The tip of my shoe nudges the wall.  My true love cautions. Be careful. You might smudge the wall. I look askance.  At many, many smudges.  Old smudges. New smudges. Mine, the newest. Doesn’t matter.  I look down. Slits of life escape from within. Out the bottom of two doors. But not the entry door. Flush to the floor. Nothing escapes. And my true love is about to go in. I wonder. Will I see her again? –Jim Broede