You were late.
Kept the rest of us waiting; hands bearing down on pocket linings as we hunted for the warmth of previous hours before the storm.
“He will be here.” she said, your wife of three months. We did not comment on the press of curves against the clarity of damp cotton; only offered her jackets which she refused with the comment: “They are not his.”
We stood ankle deep in leaves, eyes towards the bank where track met road and carriages might run. We heard the horses first; they did not like the thunder.
I wonder if you screamed as well?
(Prompt: “The air was expectant…”)