Challenge #2: Weekly Quick Fic
It was just past eight. She shouldn’t worry, right? But worry she was anyway.
This was a mistake; I shouldn’t have come. It’s too soon after, you know, Greg left. I’m not ready. The excuses that were meant to make her feel better about the roaring anxiety that clenched her stomach and had hijacked her otherwise logical brain were pouring from her like a leaking faucet. Despite their abundance, they did nothing but make her feel worse, more stupid and pathetic.
They’d talked a little before setting the date. He acted like he liked her, though she wasn’t sure she would be able to differentiate between politeness and genuine interest after her marriage fell apart without her noticing until the day he left. Had she done something wrong? She'd seemed too eager, probably.
They’d met online, which was such a cliché these days, but what else was she supposed to do? She was 45-years-old with two kids. She neither knew any available men nor had the time to prance graceful through arbitrary dating rituals. Yet, here she was, swiveling between repeatedly checking the time and watching the door to the restaurant anyway. She swore after Greg left that she was done, that she wasn’t going to do this again. The excessive worry-Does he like me? Will he call? What did that mean?-wasn’t worth it. Nowadays, it was even worse with the internet. She and Greg hadn’t had to contend with that and had still failed miserably. But she hadn’t counted on how lonely she’d get even with a house full of kids, how much she’d yearn for an adult conversation that was more personal than with a co-worker or the baggage clerk at the grocery store.
As more and more people-couples, usually-streamed through the restaurant’s doors, the more and more self-conscious she felt. They knew, everyone knew, especially the hostess and her waiter, that she wasn’t just having a casual evening out alone, but that she was being stood up. That couple over there, the ones whispering, were probably talking about her right now, in fact.
How long was she supposed to wait before it was acceptable for her to leave? Did the restaurant expect her to order something before she left? Why didn’t she just tell him she’d meet him outside?
Just then he came rushing through the doors. She tried to look down casually as if she hadn’t been staring at the doors for the last-Oh, my God, it’s only been five minutes? How could it have only been five minutes?
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said out of breath. “There was an accident on the freeway and then I couldn’t find any parking within four blocks.”
“I-It’s okay,” she stuttered, blushing.
“I was really looking forward to this date,” he said as he sat down across from her smiling.
This was a mistake; I shouldn’t have come. It’s too soon after, you know, Greg left. I’m not ready. The excuses that were meant to make her feel better about the roaring anxiety that clenched her stomach and had hijacked her otherwise logical brain were pouring from her like a leaking faucet. Despite their abundance, they did nothing but make her feel worse, more stupid and pathetic.
They’d talked a little before setting the date. He acted like he liked her, though she wasn’t sure she would be able to differentiate between politeness and genuine interest after her marriage fell apart without her noticing until the day he left. Had she done something wrong? She'd seemed too eager, probably.
They’d met online, which was such a cliché these days, but what else was she supposed to do? She was 45-years-old with two kids. She neither knew any available men nor had the time to prance graceful through arbitrary dating rituals. Yet, here she was, swiveling between repeatedly checking the time and watching the door to the restaurant anyway. She swore after Greg left that she was done, that she wasn’t going to do this again. The excessive worry-Does he like me? Will he call? What did that mean?-wasn’t worth it. Nowadays, it was even worse with the internet. She and Greg hadn’t had to contend with that and had still failed miserably. But she hadn’t counted on how lonely she’d get even with a house full of kids, how much she’d yearn for an adult conversation that was more personal than with a co-worker or the baggage clerk at the grocery store.
As more and more people-couples, usually-streamed through the restaurant’s doors, the more and more self-conscious she felt. They knew, everyone knew, especially the hostess and her waiter, that she wasn’t just having a casual evening out alone, but that she was being stood up. That couple over there, the ones whispering, were probably talking about her right now, in fact.
How long was she supposed to wait before it was acceptable for her to leave? Did the restaurant expect her to order something before she left? Why didn’t she just tell him she’d meet him outside?
Just then he came rushing through the doors. She tried to look down casually as if she hadn’t been staring at the doors for the last-Oh, my God, it’s only been five minutes? How could it have only been five minutes?
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said out of breath. “There was an accident on the freeway and then I couldn’t find any parking within four blocks.”
“I-It’s okay,” she stuttered, blushing.
“I was really looking forward to this date,” he said as he sat down across from her smiling.