Dinner Date

I felt like writing about a dinner date. None of this has to be real.

"If you're ready, Miss," smiled the waiter, nodding at the phone in my hands. I flushed. With a mumble of an apology, I shoved it into my purse and clasped my wringing hands below the table. The waiter spread a warm red tablecloth in front of me with a flick of his wrists. He smoothed a few quiet creases and set a pitcher of water near the middle.

As he tinkered with the cutlery, I allowed myself to glance around the room.

Where was he?

The streets outside flowed with rainwater. The only cars I could see were the ones left deserted next to the old apartment out front. Unsurprisingly, the regular evening traffic hadn't dared to trail the roads this evening. The fear of wounding up in a slippery accident was keeping most people indoors.

I stared woefully at my watch. It continued to claim more minutes, its ticking hands declaring that I'd definitely been made a fool of.

I could have been snuggled under some soft covers myself, perhaps with the new book my sister had gifted me, or that TV show my friends were begging me to watch.

"Everything alright, Miss?" the waiter asked, peering at me with a tight, worried face.

I nodded unconvincingly. He stared at me for a few more seconds, possibly probing for my explanation to the empty chair in front of me, then nodded and left to bring my order. I swallowed some water. It wasn't a few minutes before I drew my phone from my purse, hoping so anxiously for a message that read "Running late!!! See you soon," or "I'm standing outside, where are you?" or even "hey, I've had to cancel. I'm really sorry."

Instead, the digital silence I unlocked my screen to swallowed me whole. I refreshed my messages in case my notifications weren't updating quickly enough, but the screen remained static. I had sent him over ten messages. A vexing desperation began to build in my stomach.

I knew I could call him, ask if he was on his way just fine, rough out the edges of my spiking anger. At this point, even a humiliating no would be okay. I just wanted closure. I didn't want my questions to loom about me in the air anymore. I hated waiting. I hated feeling snubbed even more. But I couldn't get myself to call him.

Why should I?

He'd done this before. A reaction from me would make me too vulnerable. I'd seem feeble. And he, oh he'd be so unbothered, as always, even if he knew I'd spent a whole hour willing him to poke his pretty head through the door while I pretended so pitifully to be okay, fiddling with the napkin or forcing a smile at the food now laid out too painfully well in front of me.

It'll be the best date of our lives, he'd said.

A teardrop escaped me.

The steam rising from my food suddenly became toxic. And, although my mind was afraid to admit to reality and clung to the hope that the weather was making him late, my heated emotions cleared the path for me. I asked to get my food boxed, left a small tip, and walked out into the billowing cold winds.

As I sobbed into my mother's favorite shawl, I looked back towards the restaurant one final time. The waiter was by the window. He offered me a reassuring smile, then gave a sharp nod before striding back into the kitchen. Suddenly, a strange sense of comfort and release filled me up.

I looked up at the roaring skies that hailed down upon me—clouds thick with an indignance to wash away my bitter tears—and I laughed. A new glow of liberation burned gracefully within me.

I turned off my phone, feeling more at peace than I had in a long time.