Six Years Later, You’re Still Waiting for the Future He Promised

At the beginning, it all sounded wonderfully clear. He loved you, he saw a future with you, and not some hazy little who knows where this goes future either. He meant a proper one—the two of you building a life together, making plans, growing old, and possibly arguing affectionately over where to spend Christmas.

Lovely.

So naturally, you believed that eventually the future would begin.

The only tiny complication is that this conversation happened six years ago.

Since then, the future has come up quite a lot. It just seems rather less interested in actually appearing.

And after enough time spent waiting for it, the whole relationship begins to resemble a beautiful ship you boarded because a man told you the two of you were going somewhere. The bags are aboard, the view is gorgeous, there is champagne, and Sir assures you departure is coming.

Wonderful.

We Should Be Leaving Any Minute Now

In the beginning, nobody is concerned. Why would you be? The ship is clearly preparing to leave. He talks about the journey with confidence, you both know where you are supposed to be going, and there is something rather romantic about standing together on deck looking toward the horizon.

Soon, he says.

And soon is delightful when you have only recently met it.

A few months pass, and naturally there are reasons. Work is busy, money could be better, and there is always one last loose end fluttering somewhere that must be dealt with before anyone can possibly leave the harbor.

Fair enough. You pour another glass of champagne.

The following year, departure comes up again and, wonderfully, the destination has not changed. Sir still wants exactly the same future. He simply remains in no particular hurry to meet it.

The ship, meanwhile, remains exactly where you found it.

And yet, there is activity everywhere: towels have been changed, dinner has been served, another bottle has appeared, and Sir has discussed the horizon at considerable length.

One could easily mistake all this movement for travel.

The Harbor Staff Know You Now

By year three, other ships have begun doing something slightly showy: they leave.

Quite casually too. One is there in the morning and gone by lunch; another disappears for months and later comes sailing back with everyone looking annoyingly refreshed.

You watch from the deck and, naturally, remind yourself that your ship is very nice. You are comfortable, the company is familiar, and you know where everything is. There is no reason to become unreasonable simply because other people have developed this strange enthusiasm for actually going places.

Whenever the subject comes up, though, the future remains magnificent: definitely marriage someday, definitely a life together, definitely all those lovely things you discussed before the harbor staff knew your coffee order.

There is always just one more stretch of life that needs to happen first. And because nobody has actually canceled the trip, waiting starts to look an awful lot like progress.

Another summer comes and goes, then another.

Somewhere along the way, the questions quietly shrink. You stop asking when the ship is leaving and settle for something rather more modest.

Are we still going?

Absolutely.

Well, good. That is encouraging.

The fact that you have now been aboard long enough to recognize several generations of deck flowers need not spoil the mood.

Six Years Is a Rather Long Farewell to the Harbor

By year six, something interesting has happened.

The promise has not disappeared. It has simply settled in rather comfortably with the rest of the scenery.

“I see a future with you” now sits beside familiar dinners, familiar holidays, familiar conversations and the same horizon you have been admiring for a truly magnificent amount of time.

That is what makes the whole thing so curious. In his mind, the two of you may genuinely be sailing off together one day. There may be sunsets, distant shores, possibly matching luggage if imagination has really been allowed to enjoy itself.

It is a beautiful trip.

It has simply taken six years not to happen.

You have not gone anywhere.

The champagne has changed more often than the plan.

Other ships have left, returned, left again and possibly changed captains. Yours is polished beautifully, the deck chairs are arranged just so, and Sir remains deeply committed to the idea of departure.

Any day now.

By year six, you almost have to admire the whole scene: a woman standing on the deck of a ship she boarded because a man promised they were going somewhere together, while the man beside her points enthusiastically toward the horizon.

It is a lovely horizon, and you know it very well by now.

Six years later, the future is still supposed to be coming.

It simply has not left the harbor.