Miss Viviane Nimue—I knew her name from the plate on the doorbell for apartment 310—was an old spinster lady who would sit staring out onto Lake Avenue every evening from her window in our brownstone, a candle lit next to her, until she went to bed.
“I wave to her every afternoon as I come up the front steps, being the good neighbor and all, and it’s like she’s a mannequin or something…no recognition, no response at all,” my girlfriend Lynn said one night in June.
“Maybe she’s expecting someone, waiting, wishing, a Mr. Right maybe, to ride up on his white steed and whisk her away from all this,” I said, half-laughing.
“Get real, Ben,” Lynn said, “and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride…and let’s face it, Sir Galahad is never going to tie up to a meter out there on Lake Avenue to rescue old Viv .”
In August, about a week after the old girl passed away, Lynn and I were sitting on the front steps when a white Ford Mustang pulled up and an elderly man wearing a silver Van Dyke and what Lynn later said was a Bond Street suit stepped out, approached us and said, with a quite proper English accent, “Pardon me, but is this the home of the lovely Miss Viviane Nimue?”
Based on Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt word: WISHES.