This is the second instalment of my new short story.
I am rather late due to road construction on the way. I called my date to inform him, but he never picked up. So, I left him a message, but he is yet to return the call. Is he stuck in the same traffic problem?
I slip out of the taxi and walk inside the restaurant. My date is my sister’s colleague and, according to her, just my type. I’m already scared because my type has been going wrong all these years.
I open the restaurant door and notice the rectangular frame behind the receptionist. Before I can avert my eyes to avoid what is surely a mirror, I see a black shirt and maroon tie, his face lonely and lost, like he has been waiting for quite some time. My heart squeezes and I wonder if the woman has stood him up. What woman would do that to someone as sweet as him? Even though I am relieved he isn’t being cozy with anyone, I want to smack the woman for hurting him.
Sigh! I don’t need that on my date.
I walk up to the receptionist, avoiding peeking at him and concentrating hard on the back of the receptionist’s desktop, and enquire for my date. He hasn’t arrived, nor left a message. Has he stood me up too?
Undecided, I ask for my table. The receptionist opens a door in the wall behind her and gestures at the table reserved for me.
But my eyes travel to a different table. Apparently, the “mirror” behind the reception is a see-through glass. I sit down at my assigned seat facing ‘him’. My eyes keep drifting at him.
It has been fifteen minutes since I came here. He is looking down at his wristwatch, getting impatient.
Another ten minutes pass by. He is calling someone on the phone but isn’t getting any response.
When will we ever really meet?
I realise I am focusing more on his date not showing up than mine. I twirl the spoon in my hand for something to do, assuming I will see him in the surface but all I see is my own face reflecting back!
Is it because he is right here? Or has fate decided to stop intervening? Is it the last time I see him? I wait as I chew on my thoughts.
Another ten minutes…
Time is running out. I watch him rise out of his seat, having decided to give up. I hate the defeated look on his face. I twirl the spoon in my hand to avoid looking at him. It reflects me back.
Will I ever see him again? Am I okay not seeing him ever again, considering, until lately, I always thought of him as a pest? The thought churns my stomach.
He straightens his shoulders and raises his head. Our eyes meet. I can’t help asking, “Hi, were you waiting for someone?”
I just added insult to his injury. Who wants to talk about something like this. So, this is the moment when he should huff out of the room. But he nods solemnly, “Seems like something important came up so she couldn’t make it.”
I like it that he is not acting mad or trying to put her down. Always the gentleman.
He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t deserve this.
My mouth opens without my meaning to speak, “Will you have dinner with me instead?” My voice comes out all wrong, and I realise how forward I’m being through this proposition. What would he think of me?
His eyes are wide with surprise and confusion. I clear my throat and try to look casual, “I know it’s a lot to ask. But my date is late enough to assume he stood me up and I don’t want to eat alone.”
He raises an eyebrow, second guessing if I am crazy and, if not, why I want to invite a complete stranger to dinner. The silence lasts a few seconds while he considers the offer—long enough to give me a flash back of all the years I have waited for him. My heart is running a mile a minute. For the first time in my life, I have taken the lead. If he declines, I will never be able to live it down. Should I retract the offer? Say I was just kidding?
Looking at my hands, I wrestle internally with all the excuses I can come up with to leave the place. But before I can bolt out of the door, he simply shrugs his shoulders with a smile and sits down in front of me, “Well, if you are sure! I need to eat something too, I guess. By the way, I’m—”
And so it begins.
END
Short Stories 