I've Been Expecting You

My shoes squeak on the freshly-buffed linoleum. It’s comforting, in a way, like the soft twinkling beginnings of an overture. The corridors are otherwise quiet, but you’d expect that at this hour, I suppose. Still, there are others like me, scurrying through labyrinthine halls, their paces quickened by excitement or apprehension. Perhaps both. 

There are others, too, whose feet move slowly. I try not to think about them.

When I arrive, I announce my name and stare into the lens until the buzzer sounds. They know I’m coming, of course, but rules are rules. They usher me quickly into a side-room, and suddenly it’s busy with people, each flitting about with their instruments, checking this and that. I almost have to shove my way through - hello, excuse me, hi love - and set the bag down away from the wires and tubes just so I can squeeze her hand and smile and let her know I’m here.

She squeezes my hand - and squeezes - and I look to the nearest face for some small semblance of reassurance. Oh, doing fine, they breeze, and that’s enough to stop worrying about the beeping and the screens, at least for now. She’s in safe hands, lots of hands. Practically the full orchestra. That’s got to be a good thing, right? Stands to reason.

There’s a clock, somewhere, spinning. Not sure if it’s going forwards or backwards. But all I know is that I’ve not even unzipped the bag, and all those sandwiches - handmade, flavours galore! - aren’t seeing the light of day. Or is it still night? You can’t even think about eating though. Not like this. Not when your stomach is contracting and fluttering with each frantic beat of your heart.

I’ve never been to the opera, but I know a crescendo when I hear one. It’s carnal and vivid and unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. They provide the arias, and I’m doing my best attempt at a recitative in the wings. 

Sandwiches? What the hell were you thinking?

Then it’s all over. They’re all smiling; I can’t even breathe until I hear the music start again. I gasp as the shrill vibrato fills the room. We’re squeezing hands again but this time my knuckles haven’t gone white - it’s a way of making sure the world’s still really there. 

She’s spent, and they need to see to her - fine, all fine, they breeze again - so it’s up to me, apparently. Don’t worry - I’ve been training for this.

Did I say that out loud? I assume the position and one of them initiates the transfer. Then I look down and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, because that wasn’t part of the training. I think I do both. Anyway, you can’t possibly prepare for perfection, can you? Not until its little face is inches from your own, cradled in your arms. 

Hello, beautiful, I whisper. I’ve been expecting you.