What waiting taught me.

There was this place. It was cool and silent, and it was a living room. The place of someone who wasn't particularly friendly. I remember waiting. And shyness; the faint smell of incense and the muted clink of cutlery from a few rooms away.
I remember expectation. And a little evening sunlight filtering, orange, through the heavy curtains that looked like they'd been sewn with canvas material.

And there was one of those china dolls that danced if you pushed their heads. Bobbed to and fro. I remember stifling the temptation to push its head.
I remember caterpillars in the lemon plants in their garden.
Above all, while waiting, I remember their animosity. It was a weird realization for a kid.