He was supposed to meet her at eight. It is eight-forty-five and he is not here.
She hasn’t taken off her jacket. She’s playing some kind of joke on herself. She thinks that she’ll leave any minute now, and she has to be ready. Only a minute longer, no reason to take off her coat.
The waitress comes by her table every so often, sporting a plastic name tag that reads “Emma” in faded black type. Who does she think she’s fooling when she finally orders a cup of coffee? She’ll be out right after she’s finished. It will only take a few minutes. No point in getting comfortable.
There are only three other people here, none of them particularly remarkable. A little orange-haired girl and her father clinking their spoons against glass ice cream bowls. A young man in wire-rimmed glasses at the counter, flipping through yesterday’s paper. She sits alone near the door in a little yellow hat. Her eyes wander to the glass window of the storefront. It is pitch black outside. The city is not as busy at night as she’d imagined. It is nine-fifteen. She’ll leave soon.
She has never been stood up before. There’s a first time for everything, she supposes.
As she stares down into the cup, she sees her own face reflected in the inky black. What could she have done wrong? She had only met him once before. She had been perfect, composed; said all the right things, smiled at all the right times. Nothing like the heap of insecurity and disappointment that is welling up inside her now, filling her stomach, pounding inside her head, shaking in her hands.
Emma, the waitress, tells her that they are closing soon and looks sorry as she says it, empathetic as she gestures to the empty cafe. She is the only person left. She cannot meet Emma’s eyes, because she knows why she’s still here, why she has been here for ages, alone. Emma compliments her makeup. She mumbles a “thank you” and doesn’t mention the hours she spent in front of the mirror trying to make every detail perfect.
It is nine-fifty-two and her coffee sits cold in her hands. There is no lipstick ring on the edge of the cup. She still stares at her reflection. A single drop ruptures the surface, sending ripples out from the center. She hadn’t noticed she was crying.
She picks up her purse from the ground and it feels ten times heavier than she remembers. One, two, three dollars she finds crumpled up at the bottom and a few coins, placed gently on the table. She doesn’t know how much one cup of untouched coffee costs and she’d rather not ask. She stands up and quickly walks to the door before the waitress can say anything. The bells play a short, silvery jingle on her way out.