If you come, I’ll be there. If you don’t, I’ll understand. I’ll stay anyway. It’s the least I can do.
“Three weeks. I’ve been sitting on this bench every day, watching the water, waiting for you.”
He stared at their joined hands, then at her face. His eyes were wide, disbelieving. See You in Montevideo
She had gone. She had bought the ticket, packed her things, told her mother she was leaving. She had stood on that dock for four hours as the afternoon turned to evening and the evening turned to night. The ferry had come and gone three times. And Mateo had never appeared.
She had called his boarding house from a payphone, her voice cracking as Mrs. Álvarez told her that Señor Mateo had checked out that morning. Left without a forwarding address. No explanation, no message. Just gone. If you come, I’ll be there
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since she had stood on the ferry dock in Buenos Aires, her small suitcase in one hand and his letter in the other—a different letter, from a different time. That letter had been full of hope. Come to Montevideo , he had written. We’ll start over. Just the two of us. I’ve found a place, Elena. It’s small, but it has a view of the water. I’ll be waiting for you at the dock. See you in Montevideo.
So this is me, finally showing up. Late. Too late, probably. But I’ll be here. At the bench on the rambla, the one just past the old pier, every evening until the end of the month. I’ll be the old man with the grey beard and the bad leg, staring at the water like he’s waiting for a ghost. It’s the least I can do
“I haven’t. Not really.”