In a café, waiting for a date, I observe a barista with long, red hair that spirals into locks below her shoulders, burning beans poured into eco-friendly cups over hot, foaming milk. Our eyes briefly meet, then I shift my gaze out of the large, tinted window. White flakes replace swathes of layered, golden-brown leaves. A man salts the walkway as another man clears the path with a shovel. My anxious fingers drum across the table, calming to the 90s pop playing on the ceiling speakers. I wondered why my date didn’t show. Then I wondered whether I should even be surprised.
“Excuse me,” the sweetest voice said.
I lift my gaze. “I’m waiting for—”
“I’m assuming you’re waiting for some internet date.”
“It that obvious?” I said, arching an insecure brow with warm cheeks.
“I see it all the time.”
“People like me?”
“Lovely people arrive for a ghost date.”
“It happens that often?” I said.
She slides into the seat across from me. “People get cold feet.” She shrugs.
“I’m supposed to meet a blind date. I own the place, so I don’t have to ask for a break.”
I smiled. “I’m here for a blind date, too.”
“What’s your name?” she said.
I reach my hand across the table. “Ben.”
“I’m Amy—”
“The lady I’m supposed to date.” The corner of my mouth pulls up into a grin.
“You showed.” Amy blushes.
We promised forever fifteen years ago today.

Twitter – @AC0040

(© 2023 AC)

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