Page 71 of Drawn Together
My waiter in his lapels gives me a look of but did he though? And I can’t even blame him as he walks off to the other workers watching my sad empty table. The candle he lit in front of me as soon as I sat down has now melted halfway down the wick, it’s flames slow dancing in the dim light.
I look down at the read texts to Kane that are still left unanswered.
Me:Does seven still work for you?
Me:I grabbed a table for us just in case they gave the reservation away.
Me:I can definitely do another night if you need to!!
This isn’t happening, right? I’m not getting stood up on my very first date after two years of celibacy from a previous relationship. It’s just not; there’s no way. Is this what dating is like in big cities? If you got stood up in Whisper Bay, it would be a disaster—the whole town would riot, and stores wouldn’t even allow you to come near their parking lot for a month.
Or is it me that’s the problem here? I would be the common denominator in all things romance in my life. Maybe Fletcher was right when he said I had poor taste. It clearly hasn’t worked out well for me so far.
And, like the world thought that was just hilarious, right above Kane’s contact is a text from the one and only.
Fletcher:How’s it going? Has he asked you your favorite color yet?
Me:Funny story…
Me:He hasn’t shown up. I think I might be at the wrong place?
Fletcher:Westlight? The restaurant and bar in Brooklyn, right?
Me:That’s where I am.
Me:Maybe he’s just running late?
An hour late…
Fletcher:Maybe.
My fingers trail the last slice of bread, and I dip it in the garlic and oil mixture in the tiny coral dish. If nothing else, this is the best free bread I have ever had. And their water tastes like cucumbers. That’s something, right? I can get dressed up all pretty and go out to dinner and eat bread and drink fancy water and it not be the most depressing thing in the world, can’t I?
My waiter comes back with expectant eyes.
Mouth full, I try to smile. “This bread is great. Really, compliments to the chef.”
I am given a stiff eye roll, and I can practically hear the other workers here counting bets on just how long the pathetic woman who got stood up is going to sit by herself, soaking in the only free things a place this nice offers.
A bartender with blonde braided pigtails gives me a sympathetic frown, and I wonder if she’s the one Kane said he knew the other night. I wonder how often this happens. I wonder if I am the single most pathetic woman in this entire population of eight million, and I decide it’s best if I didn’t know the answer to that.
I text Fletcher after another twenty minutes, for no reason other than to just keep my hands busy.
Me:The staff here hates me.
Fletcher:No one could hate you.
Me: Tell that to the waiter.
Fletcher:Gladly.
I sigh and check the time again; if he was going to come, he would have said something at the very least, right? I’m not sure. I have never had a great sense of judgement, and in the fifteen minutes I spent with the man—ten of which were abouthis plants—I had an overall okay feeling about this. In one last attempt, I text his contact again.
Me:Look, if you aren’t coming, can you at least let me know now?
A moment passes by, and my phone vibrates in hand. I all but throw my cucumber water on the waiter staring down at me.
The number you have attempted to reach has been disconnected.
