Waiting for Roman(ce) SYTYCW

Poppy Watkins has been waiting for the love of her life for ten months, three days, five hours and a minute or two. If we were to be more honest; five years, ten months, three days, five hours and five minutes. Perhaps we could stretch to a decade. A decade of dedicated waiting. 

A professional waiter, Poppy has waited in bed, she has waited at the supermarket, she has waited at the beach, the city, the mountains, the theatre, the countryside. Currently, she waits in a Christmas Decoration Factory, something made only a modicum more depressing by the fact that it is February.

Not that she’s complaining. When you find the love of your life you have to hold on with all your might, right? If Poppy wants a cosy little house, a merry fireplace, bonny eyed children and all that entails she will have to wait for Romance. How could she ever be happy without Romance? And by Romance, I mean the man and the myth; Romance, her childhood best friend. A budding music career might mean that the original Christian name had been shortened to Roman, but the irony was not lost on our patient friend. Despite the fact that she had always called him Ro, anyhow.    

It had not occurred to Poppy that there was such a thing as a Christmas Decoration factory, before she had arrived at one. It had certainly not occurred to her, when she accepted the temporary job, that Christmas was over and so then was the time for baubles. After three weeks of packing away, and stripping down sad, dirty looking ornaments a rage had begun to build inside her. If something interesting didn’t happen soon she would have to commit mass murder with some dusty tinsel. 

The problem wasn’t really the work, she reflected sadly, it was the lack of any decent conversation. Every day seemed to stretch on interminably amidst chats of online dating, soap operas and which clothes detergent really did the job. The worst of it was, Poppy was becoming one of them. She had started to shop competitively, she had ironed something yesterday, she had accidentally watched an entire episode of a soap. Worse, she fully planned to watch another.

A once gold skinned bauble fell from her hand, bounced once, twice, thrice, and bounded gleefully off to parts unknown. The problem was, Poppy really didn’t care. The thought of hunting for a bauble in the ever increasing clouds of dust and glitter left her cold. Perhaps nobody had noticed. Poppy looked up slowly, carefully, secretively- and found every one of her co-workers staring at her. Had she been talking to herself again? Was it just her imagination or was Lara slowly pulling away the tinsel. She hadn’t been muttering about the whole strangling thing had she? Would she be the first person arrested on intent to murder with a Christmas object? 

“It went that way.” Denise, an older woman, who could win an award for being the worst whisperer in the world, shout whispered. 

There was nothing for it. 

“Be right back.”

The bauble has disappeared into the furthest, darkest, and let’s be honest, dampest room in the entire factory. There was nothing less tempting then being rained on through one of the mouldy roof panels. Poppy paused at the threshold, trying to locate her bauble by sight alone. This was it. She would have to hope for the best. 

One step into the room was enough to send her skidding across to the other side. The flickering light didn’t help matters, lending a kind of disco effect to the dilapidated store room. Trying to right herself, and discovering that her feet refused to find purchase, Poppy was one moment from landing uncomfortably on the floor. It was lucky then, that a hand on her arm stopped her. It was unlucky that she had no idea from whom or what the hand came. A kind of sharp excitement rather than fear crept into her veins. The hand was warm and masculine; dry and a little weathered to the touch. It would belong to a tall man, with muscles, she decided. A torch illuminated the source. First impressions, though darkly lit, were favourable. A man, perhaps of her own age; dark clothed, but friendly faced, held her. She couldn't see much of his features but his very white teeth seemed bared in a smile and not a grimace. He smelled distinctly of washing powder, which made her think that he might not be a serial killer or axe murderer. The man nodded backwards, and together they began to creep backwards out of the room.