She Said Ten-Thirty

by Ann Davie

He sat waiting. The footpath was just wide enough to hold a group of cramped, wobbly tables pressed up against the café window. Sugar bags burst trying to prop the uneven legs. As he shuffled the wooden chair closer, the white grit scratched under the thick soles of his just-polished shoes.

He pressed his nose up against the glass window and held his hand above his eyes to cut the glare. With hissed curses, he berated himself for forgetting his watch again. The clock inside read ten-forty. His mind ticked over the well-worn excuses, trying to remember when he last used which one. Even though there was no one to hold himself accountable, he felt the need for cover. It was all part of the attraction he knew, but didn't dare admit it. Better to just savour the tingle of being bad.

She said ten-thirty. When he walked up to the table, he half expected to see her already there. Last time she'd been a bit early. The feeling that something was slipping away drained the charge that had been built up through anticipation that morning.

Rolling the teaspoon between his thumb and fingers, he thought perhaps he should have ordered something more manly. Café latte seemed so weak now, not cosmopolitan at all. His ego could still notice the romance in small things. His thoughts wandered over exotic brews and feverish dew-dropped lips. What would be the perfect drink for such an assignation?

He felt as if he were floating in some heady concoction himself. Chasing bubbles as they burst, waiting for the release to infuse him with some sense that he was alive. Each sparkling pop would tickle his nerve endings, causing him to feel, if only briefly, that this was the way life was lived - a series of brief, bursting episodes full of effervescence. He fancied that he floated amongst the rarified, liquorous life of champagne. In fact, he altered between the drudge of syrupy lemonade and stale beer. He knew his life was tasteless the flavour and colour long gone. It had been these brief episodes that kept such recognition at bay.

His eyes darted, chasing shapes he thought would soon bring her into view. Blue, she seemed to like wearing blue. No blue in sight. He looked for a head of dark brown hair, down around shoulders. None. He widened his search for a feminine form, to at least give him something, anything to make the time pass quickly until he saw her.

Tugging at the knotted tie, he loosened its grip around his neck. He tried to ease back in his chair, but it clearly wasn't designed for lounging. Like an airport lounge chair, it was just comfortable enough to stay seated in for a short time, but you wouldn't want to have to spend more than an hour in one of them.

He relaxed a bit and looked about. The narrow lane held as much romance as any inner city lane possibly could. It was only his mood that had translated the trundling trucks and stagnant puddles into exotic background details on former visits.

Again, he looked into the café window. Almost eleven. He wondered how long he could stretch it. Need and desire had long ago replaced guilt and responsibility. At this moment, futility and resignation took over. She wasn 't coming. She never had any intention of showing up; he knew it now.

He pushed his chair away from the table. The coffee spilled and ran across the tabletop before dribbling into the chair she would have occupied. He discovered he had none of the fiery spite that usually accompanied his failures. Maybe it did get easier. He dropped a generous tip and left.

As he passed the newstand next to his office, he picked up the latest single 's magazine. It didn't hurt to try again now, did it?