Your eyes risk another glance at your watch and your shoulders drop a bit more as you realize another 15 minutes have passed. Following the pattern you’ve already established, checking the time while dialing his number… which once again went straight to voicemail… again. You can’t help it as the fear and mortification simmer, rising like bile in the back of your throat.
You were stood up.
You are fairly certain that a full hour late means he isn’t going to come, though now all you were left with was your almost empty glass and the decision on what to do with this particular revelation. Your eyes shut, the sting of rejection bringing heat to the back of your eyelids, tears threatening to build and spill over. But you would not cry, not here, not tonight, not over this.
Opening your eyes you find my gaze pinned on you, brow furrowed, arms crossed over my chest as I leanagasint the doorway to the kitchen. I seem to be working the bar every time you’ve come in over the last 6 months. Sometimes he would be with you, but more and more often you’d be sitting here waiting for him only to begin this particular dance yet again. Saying he’d meet you after work, then never show, only offering a lame excuse as to why he couldn’t.