Waiting

My memory is so odd. It chooses such inane little details to focus on. I know I have a good memory, and I'm very observant, but sometimes the things I remember (like for example, a particular item of clothing I was wearing at a particular time) are just so silly.
It wasn't that it was a particularly memorable or historic event, there are just certain moments you can pick out you see yourself so clearly. It's in those moments you look back and see how things should have been different.
It's September. Things have been bad for a while. Tonight, they are particularly bad. I've been holding on so tight, trying to keep you from slipping through my finger tips. Water droplets, dripping their way out.
I'm wearing my purple trench coat. The one I bought at Target and never wore until tonight.
The things I wear feel so significant. Even though really they aren't. At this point I'm practically manic. I'm sitting on your doorstep, waiting for you to come home. You haven't answered your text messages in a couple of hours. I have been sitting here for an hour, telling myself just 5 more minutes. 5 more minutes and I'll get up and go home. But I just can't let go.
And out of all this, I remember I was wearing a purple (maybe slightly indigo) trench coat. At one in the morning outside your house.
I never ever wanted to be that girl again, the one who waits. Now I sound like a Doctor Who reference.
I never wanted to be the girl who waited around for a guy to call. Who waited around for someone to show up. Who waited around for someone to realize what was in front of them. I didn't, I really didn't deserve to wait.
And yet, sometimes I did. Like all females, I was stricken with the disease. I couldn't value myself enough to demand better. I was always afraid that things would slip through my fingers. And so I kept waiting. 5 more minutes.
Perhaps it was time to stop letting people waste my time and start not waiting.