The Restaurant

    My fingers drum impatiently on the tabletop. The cloth is silky against my fingertips. I slowly take a sip from the crystal on the table. The condensation wets my fingertips and I watch as the droplets slowly gather together and stream down the glass. The same waiter I have been dealing with for the past hour appears again.

       Grinning unapologetically, “Still waiting? I’ll get you another refill ma’am. That makes it the fourth refill? Fifth?” I smile tightly back, trying to end the intolerably one-sided conversation. Oblivious to my obvious discomfort he rambles on, “He must be a lucky guy for a girl like you to keep waiting for him. Heck! I would never leave you waiting.” He raises his eyebrows in a way meant to be mysterious and attractive but refuses to be. Swallowing the scoff that is rising in my throat I keep my face carefully blank and expressionless. “So is this a special occasion tonight? No fun celebrating anything by yourself. I would know…” he trails off. My hands fold down into my lap and knot together. 

       “If you’ll excuse me,” false politeness drips from my tone as I cut off the blathering monologue, “I need to call him again.” I hold my phone up as proof. The fact that I need proof for this guy brings fury to my lips. 

Flipping through my phone, I tap on the phone icon and select his name. The dial tone blares in my ear, once, twice, ten times before sending me to his voicemail. His warm voice fills my ear as I listen to the prerecorded message. I hang up, biting back the sigh that rises through me. I know that he has important work to do. More important than most. But he told me, he promised me that tonight was about us. That he would be here. On time. 

The dim lights in the room and the candle burning on our table should be romantic. The heavenly scent of fresh bread and the live band strumming softly in the background. For a moment, I consider slipping off my red stilettos, but despite the discomfort, I leave them on.

A fresh bowl of bread appears at my table, along with a small plate of butter. I fold one of the small rolls into my hand, savoring the heat. My fingers unfurl, revealing deep canyons carved into the otherwise smooth flour-coated surface. 

To my surprise, a waiter comes up again, a pitcher in hand. An ice-cold stream trickles into my glass. This one is a petite girl, white-blond hair in a pixie cut. Her mild blue eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes. Her eyelids painted faintly with eyeliner and shadow. She greets me quietly, “Hello. My name is Tonya. I noticed that you have been sitting here for a while and I wanted to check in on you.” She offers a small polite smile. 

“Hey,” I say quietly, still thankful that the first waiter didn’t come back again. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m fine, just waiting for someone.”

Her pale pink lips pull down, “Does this happen often?” 

“More often than I’d like. But it really is fine. He’s one of those people who tries to help everyone, and just gets a little carried away sometimes.” I sigh a little before I can stop myself. “Anyway, I’m sure he noticed that an old lady needed help with her groceries or something,” I say, drawing an image in my mind. 

White hair pulled into a bun. Short and soft around the edges. A bright red sweater that was hand-embroidered with cats. Small circular lenses highlighting her small, bright blue eyes. One of her many beloved cats in the shopping cart, aptly named Whiskers. The perpetual scent of cookies.

I smile at bit at the picture, wishing once again he was here with me. He would have smiled, named the fictional old woman, and then helped create her entire childhood. We would have joked about her, and randomly brought her up in conversation years from now. My fingers twine in my hair that I had so carefully curled more than an hour ago. By the time he gets here, my efforts will have been wasted. 

“Well, I hope you don’t wait for much longer. If this is what always happens, then maybe he doesn’t deserve you. I know that sometimes we let the good things make up for the not-so-good.” Her hands flutter wildly like small birds caught in a tornado. Facial features contort in what is supposed to be a smile but has been pulled into a wince. I mimic her expression. 

Carefully plucked eyebrows scrunch down onto her pixie-like features. Her short hair is tossed into her eyes as she vehemently shakes her head. “I should probably get back to work,” her words like velvet against my skin. She says something else, illegible, as thoughts flood through my awareness. Dimly, I raise my hand as a goodbye. They pound and pulse against my skin. Pain spreads its fingers in the back of my skull. Exhaustion pulls at my limbs. 

The chair pushes against my legs as if forcing me to stay. The plush carpet sucks at my feet as my momentum carries me toward the exit. A wad of cash sits patiently at my fingertips. A few ones fall through into the collecting tin at the feet of the performers. They smile their thanks to the back of my head. The door handle melts in my hand like chocolate — cold one second, the next warm and slick. 

The night sparkles with ice. At first, the chill is soothing, smooth. Then, it starts to attack. Viciously biting through my thin black dress, it eats away at my skin. Chills prickle down my spine. My breath trickles out as thin lines of white mist. 

Numb fingers begin to ruffle through my purse, searching for keys. I pause. A familiar car pulls into the lot. The ice shatters beneath its wheels as it pulls to the curb. I hold my breath for a moment, hoping. Hoping desperately. 

The door cracks open. The gap is barely large enough to fit my fingers through. All at once he spills from the car and gathers me in his arms. His movements are fluid and graceful. His frozen breath warms my skin and soothes the chills wracking my body.

“I’m sorry.” His words fill me with warmth. “I am so, so sorry that I kept you waiting.”