Very short story - prompt

The prompt for this week at the Livejournal writing community of which I'm a member is: Monument.

Based on bits and pieces of real life, plus a healthy dose of the sort of quiet desperation I get while standing in lines on humid days, I present - Monument (endless wait).

***

He takes her to the monument like it’s supposed to mean something, but all she can think is that she’s hot and a little dizzy from the press of the crowd. His words about duty and honor thrum dully in her ears as she tries to eavesdrop on the conversations of the people around them.

“All I’m saying is: time travel, alien pheromones, old Kirk, and new Kirk.”

“I would kill someone for a pretzel and a Fanta.”

“Now turn your hand up, like you’re holding it!”

“God, I wish people would stay behind the barricades. I can’t even see anything because that guy,” here the speaker’s voice rises sharply, “is leaning over the barricade.”

She’s embarrassed because ‘that guy’ is with her, and he is leaning over the barricades, and she’s angry because if it were so bad, why couldn’t they just ask him to move back? She’s tempted to turn around and snap at them to do something or quit bitching, but instead she closes her eyes and tries to catch a hint of the coy breeze that’s been stirring her hair at odd moments during this very long day.

The sun is too bright when she opens her eyes again, and the monument is still there, and he’s still talking. The nerd is still elaborating a fairly horrifying scenario involving warp speed eleven, William Shatner, and a mirror universe as the snotty tourists behind her continue to whine, and she realizes there’s only one way out of this.

She tugs his hand. There’s no response because this is his favorite part of the park, so she wraps the fingers of her other hand around his elbow and jerks it so hard that he stumbles into her. He finally stops his droning as an expression of confusion and rising irritation crinkles his forehead.

“Wha-” he begins, but he can’t finish because she’s kissing him so thoroughly that the conversation she’s been listening to dry up into mildly scandalized murmurs.

The breeze flutters the hem of her shirt, and the first drops of rain patter her cheek. His hands settle in their accustomed spots, and the afternoon isn’t a complete waste after all.