Many Tuesdays Later
Elliot sat on his balcony, checking his watch occasionally. Tuesdays were his day off, a choice he made over a year ago. He was now half-way through his three-year agreement to acquire Salt and Grace, the help desk job long behind him.
It had been more than eighteen months since Jill had disappeared, and as he had done for eighty Tuesdays in a row, Elliot waited for eight o’clock to bring nothing but silence. At first, he had been hopeful. But she had not come back. She had been truthful. Her time with him had long been over. She had moved on to other people in need.
For a long time, each Tuesday reopened the ache—but lately, sorrow had softened into gratitude that she had been there at all. He was a happier man than he’d been. For the most part. Except for the lonely ache for the woman who claimed not to be one. So he waited there. Every Tuesday.
Just in case.
He still thought of her—at odd moments, mostly. While chopping vegetables. While folding laundry. While watching a customer at Salt and Grace light up over something simple, like pie.
He never told anyone about her. Not really. Some truths were too strange to explain. And some feelings too sacred to dissect.
So he worked. He served. And every Tuesday at eight, he listened to the quiet.
This day was just like all of the others. He sat alone on his sectional sofa waiting until noon.
He had a BLT for lunch, and moved to his balcony for the afternoon, reading Angels in My Hair by Lorna Byrne.
In the afternoon, he did laundry, took out the trash, and watered his plants, which had grown in number in the last year. One particular ivy was attempting to take over his living room. After tossing his wet clothes into the dryer, he returned to the balcony with a pilsner in hand, rocking slowly in the outdoor swing Jill had provided with a mere thought.
About four pm, he noticed a poorly dressed person turn up his street. Something about their movements made him stand. It was more like trudging than walking. Slow, uncertain, like someone who’d been walking for a very long time.
The person stopped moving for a moment, as if exhausted, pulling back a ratty hoodie. It was a homeless woman of indeterminate age.
Elliot still had sliced tomatoes and bacon left over from lunch. Without questioning the impulse, he made a sandwich, grabbed a bottled water, wrapped them both in a paper towel, and headed for the door.
When he opened it, she was standing there, hand half-raised to knock.
Dressed in layered rags—mismatched fabrics that clung to her too loosely. A threadbare coat hung from her shoulders, clearly made for someone twice her size. Her jeans were torn at the knees, crusted with dirt, the hems frayed beyond repair. Her sneakers didn’t match, and neither of them fit. One heel was flattened from being stepped on too many times. The other had laces tied together in a knot that had probably been there for months.
Her hair, once neat and braided, was now a wild tangle—windblown, knotted, streaked with grease. A few strands clung to her cheek where sweat had dried. Her face was sunburned. Her lips cracked.
She looked like someone who hadn’t bathed in weeks.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were Jill’s.
Tired. Wounded. But unmistakable.
She looked up at him, trying to smile, though it faltered halfway there.
“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry I’m late.”
Elliot stared at her, the wrapped sandwich in his hands suddenly feeling sacred.
“Jill?”
She nodded, tears already gathering.
Elliot held out the wrapped sandwich, suddenly unsure why his hands were shaking.
Jill hesitated, then took it. She peeled back the paper towel, stared at it like she didn’t quite trust it, and took a careful bite.
She froze, her eyes as big as saucers, a bit of mayo on her upper lip. She chewed, swallowed, and smiled. Then she laughed—soft, startled—and covered her mouth as tears spilled over.
She took another bite, and with her mouth full she said, “Oh! Oh, that’s—”
She swallowed. “That’s really good.”
Elliot smiled at her.
She looked up at him. “I got a little lost,” she said between bites of the BLT. “Turns out walking back from the celestial depot takes longer than you think when you don’t have train fare.”
“Where is the depot?”
“Tibet.”
“Tibet? How did you—”
“When I became human, I sadly gained the ability to sin.” She met his eyes. “I stowed away in the belly of a cargo ship from Cairo. But I walked a very long way first.”
“Oh, Jill…”
He stepped forward before she could say another word and wrapped his arms around her—carefully, reverently—like she might break.
“You came back,” he whispered.
“I made a choice,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“With the wish?”
She pressed into him with the gentlest nod, and in that quiet contact, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
“I wished that I could love you.” She pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. “So, here I am.”
And in that moment, Elliot understood a truth that spanned every plane of existence.
The most beautiful girl in the world is the one who loves you.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.