DISCLAIMER: Did I mention that I don't own Charlie's Angels or any of the characters associated with said show. They belong to lots of other people, including Aaron Spelling - and Charlie. I'm also not making any profit from this in anyway, shape or form. Disclaimer done.
NOTE: This is based on the original series from the seventies with the real Angels. This follows the events of Hours of Desperation from Season Two.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Waiting for an Angel
By Del Robertson
I've been waiting for over an hour now. Sitting alone at a table for four towards the back of the room. I suppose I could have been courteous and chosen a table for two and left the bigger table for a larger party. But, that would be too obvious. Everyone would know, then.
That I was waiting.
With the larger table, people will assume I'm waiting for the rest of my dinner party to arrive. That way, I'm not alone. I'm not some lonely woman sitting in the dark, waiting for someone. This way, at this table, I'm waiting for several nameless, unimportant nobodys. Rather than that one special someone.
Who might not come.
My eyes dart to the front door whenever I hear the creak of its hinges, the brass bell tinkle above the frame. As the door opens, a flash of late afternoon sunlight intrudes on the dim lighting of the restaurant, momentarily chasing away the shadows. Upon the door's closing, the shadows overpower the light again, enveloping the room in darkness once more.
I prefer the darkness. Once, I was scared of the dark, just like all children are, I suppose. But then I learned, as long as I had Lizbet with me, I was never truly alone. Not even when Beemish would lock me in the closet. Lizbet helped. The shadows that once terrified me soon beckoned to me, welcomed me, cherished me in their cool embrace. And, late at night, when Beemish came for me, if I kept real still and controlled my breathing, she couldn't find me in the shadows. For the first time in my life, I was safe. Safe in the dark; safe within the shadows' embrace.
I should have stayed in the shadows. I still can't believe I did that. I can't believe the friendship I may be jeopardizing. I don't know what came over me.
Yes, I do. The madman showing up at the office. He made you put on that belt rigged with explosives, forced us to track down his double-crossing partner, his fortune in stolen diamonds. If we refused – if we failed to deliver the goods in time – he would detonate the bomb. That's the most difficult thing I've ever had to do; leave you back at the office while I went out in the field, knowing that it might very well be the last time I'd ever see you alive again.
It had been so close. By the time we'd found his partner, he was dead – and the diamonds were gone. We were out of time – and out of excuses. Thank God we were able to come up with that ruse to get you in the car with them on that lakeside road. And, they fell for our detour. When I saw you running for the lake, latching onto the tree, swinging yourself out over the water – and him pushing the detonator – I think my heart stopped.
Then, when you came up for air, and waded back to shore, I wanted to take you into my arms and kiss you right then and there. As usual, though, I waited in the shadows. While Kris, young and bubbly Kris, rushed towards you, enveloping you in her embrace, hugging you like I longed to do. And, still, I waited.
But, once we had wrapped up the case and you were on your way to your car, I grabbed your hand, pulling you back. I'm not even sure what I said to you. But, I do remember telling you that I was tired of waiting; that I wanted you. And, if you wanted me too, we could meet tonight. I was bold, even naming the restaurant, telling you what time I would be here. Then, I briskly walked away, quickly escaping in my own car before you could fully recover from the state of shock I'd left you in.
And, here I was. Waiting in the shadows once again. I check my watch; I've been here well over an hour already. I consider giving you another fifteen, thirty minutes. Maybe you took longer getting dressed, searching for just that right outfit, the one you wear when you want to look really nice. Or, maybe you got caught in traffic behind some granny who won't get over thirty miles an hour. Maybe you're just running late.
As I sip my ginger ale, I mentally dismiss each rationalization I've just thought up. You could walk in wearing a burlap sack and you'd still look magnificent. Traffic's not that heavy at this time of day. And, I've seen you drive. Even if you had to take the sidewalk, you wouldn't stay behind a granny driver for long. As for simply running late? You've never been late for anything in your life.
The waitress approaches, weaving her way in and out of empty tables. When I first arrived, there was only one other customer, a gentleman hunched over his stool at the bar. Since then, a quarter of the tables have been filled. The dinner rush will be coming soon, bringing enough patrons to fill every seat in the house. I wave the waitress off.
Rifling through my purse, I pull out a couple of bills, leave them on the table. Snapping my purse closed, I take one last sip of my ginger ale. Standing, I retrieve my coat from the back of the chair. The bell above the door tinkles. Out of habit, I look towards the front of the restaurant.
The last fading rays of sunshine filter in, silhouetting the image in the doorway. Reflexively, I blink against the light. The svelte figure of a woman dressed in a blouse and slacks lingers uncertainly, attempting to discern faces in the darkness. She allows the door to close behind her, dispelling the dual illusion created by light and dark. As she steps fully into the room, I'm able to see her face, the quick smile, the wave of her hand.
And, smiling at you, I step forth from the shadows.
The End