Waiting

As I slide into the booth at the old-fashioned diner on the corner of Main Street and St. Putney Avenue, I reach over and wipe some vapor off the window and peer outside. Everything is dark, aside from the lights on the building that cast an artificial glow ten feet in front of me.

Suddenly, with a flash of headlights, a car pulls into the parking space a few feet away and a young woman around my age gets out. I squint to see her. She walks in, wobbling a little, but nevertheless bouncy and cheerful. When she opens the door I refrain from looking over my shoulder at her.

"Table for two, please," the girl says to the waitress. Then, she adds, "I've got a date." The way the words slip out of her mouth so eagerly tells me that she's been waiting and wanting to say that for a very long time.

The waitress leads her to a table diagonal from mine. I wait until she leaves before sneaking a glance at the girl. She is wearing a coral colored blouse, matching heels, and a black pencil skirt. Her hair is in some type of fancy updo, with a few curled strands hanging down. Her makeup highlights her facial features and is obviously meant to look "natural." She catches me looking and smiles slightly. She notices that I'm alone and I can feel her pitying me. It must be terrible to not have someone to love. I quickly avert my eyes. She taps her manicured nails on the table and fiddles with the metal napkin holder as she waits.

Since I have no girlfriend or children to go home to, I decide I might as well stay here and wait with her, too. I flag the waitress down and order a burger. "Would you like fries or hush puppies?" she asks. Since I have no idea what hush puppies are and am in no mood to find out, I agree to fries. "Coming right up, sir," she says, and smiles. I wonder if she really is happy to serve me or if she's smiling because it's a requirement.

After the waitress takes my order, she goes over to the girl. "Would you like something to drink, miss?" she asks.

The girl looks up at her and shakes her head confidently. "No, thanks. I'll wait until my date gets here." There is a pause before she explains quickly, "I came a little early, so . . ." I can't help but ponder if she said that so the waitress wouldn't pity her or if she is trying to convince herself.

I keep stealing glances at her. She looks restless, glancing at the clock, playing with the menus, unrolling her napkin and placing it on her lap, organizing her silverware. Her feet tap out an eccentric rhythm.

By the time my food comes, she is still alone. I take my time, drizzling ketchup and mustard on the burger and then pouring a sizeable amount next to my fries before slowly beginning to take a bite. Suddenly, the girl stands, and for one terrible moment I think she's given up, that she's going home. It's only seven, I want to shout. There's still time.

But she doesn't turn left and go out the door. She heads straight for the ladies' room, no doubt to check her makeup under the glare of the flourescent lights to make sure nothing smudged, or to wash her hands to give her fingers something to do, or to lock herself in a stall and take deep breaths to calm her jittery nerves.

She passes me on her way back, and I catch a whiff of sweet, floral perfume trailing behind her, an invisible tail. She slides back into the booth and lets out a small huff of impatience. I drag my fry through a pool of ketchup as we wait.

The waitress comes back to her and says pleasantly, "Would you like to order a drink now, miss?"

The girl hesitates for a long time. She is no doubt thinking that ordering a drink without her date is the first sign of defeat. But a nice, cool glass of something will calm her nerves and give her something to do. So finally, she agrees, "I'll . . . I guess I'll have a Diet Coke, please."

"Coming right up!" The waitress smiles at her before walking away, only pausing to ask, "Can I clear that away for you, sir?"

I glance down at my empty plate. "Sure."

"Would you like coffee or dessert, or just the check?"

This diner is beginning to depress me, but I can't leave yet. Some weird magnetic pull is forcing me to stay here, to wait out this night with the girl. "I'll have some coffee, please."

"Decaf or non-decaf?"

"Non-decaf is fine."

"Coming right up." The waitress clears my plate away and walks back into the kitchen. I glance at the clock again. It's eight-fifteen. Nine o'clock, I tell myself. If it's nine o'clock and he (or she) still isn't here, then I'll go.

The girl looks defiant now, like she can see through my plan. It's ironic how at the beginning, she was the one giving me pity, and now I'm giving her mine. A bad feeling is beginning to settle in my stomach, almost like a cramp. The truth is nagging at the back of my mind, and I can only imagine what it's doing in hers. Throbbing? Pulsing? Hammering around in her brain until it becomes physically painful to think about? And yet she still believes, He's late. He's coming. He said he'd be here.

The waitress returns with my coffee and places it down in front of me. I stare down at the thin, black liquid that resembles sludge more than anything before looking back up at her. The look she gives me tells me that she doesn't want to be serving me this coffee any more than I want to drink it. "Thank you," I say.

"No problem. Let me know if you need anything." She goes back to the girl. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

Her voice comes out faint. "I'm . . . I'm sure. Thank you."

I add some cream and sugar to my coffee, stirring it and watching as the dark black gives way to a creamy brown. I kept stirring it, my head down, until the waitress walks away. I sip the coffee, wondering if any difference was made. Not really.

Eight thirty comes and goes. It's starting to feel like I'm in a horror movie. The main character is alone on a dark stormy night and hears noises in the kitchen downstairs right as the power goes out. She slowly goes downstairs as the eerie music plays and the audience holds their breath and the tension mounts and you can practically see the thought bubble forming over everyone's heads: No don't go no no no do not go down there run run run away do not go it is not safe no don't go. But she does anyway.

This is exactly how I am feeling right now.

Eight forty-five. I wonder how long I can milk this act. I wonder if I can make it until nine o'clock. I raise my hand for the check. The waitress passes by and gives it to me so fast it's like she printed it out a long time ago and was just waiting for that particular moment. I take my time paying it, counting the bills and making sure to leave a nice tip.

When I can no longer play it out, I steal one last glance at the girl. Eight fifty. She is glancing at her phone non-stop, biting her lip. There is still time for an excuse. Too much traffic on the freeway. A freak accident. A family emergency. Flat tire. She'd even take invading aliens, she's that desperate. She just wants a text or a call. Something. Anything.

But she doesn't get it. And the look in her eyes, the way they are darting back and forth to make sure no one is staring, makes me want to find whoever asked her out and hurt him.

I get up to walk out the door, and as I pass her table I slow down. She really is pretty. And it really is a shame that she is being stood up. For a second, I have a fantasy of sitting down across from her and introducing myself. We'd talk and laugh and stay until the diner closes and she'd forget about the other guy. Maybe we'd even fall in love.

But this is not a movie. If I sat down across from her, she would probably deny needing my sympathy, or scream, or get angry. I speed up again, and as I keep walking I think of her face, looking so pale and lonely, and suddenly I cannot be in that diner a second longer.

As I leave, the waitress says, "Have a nice night, sir." She passes me, no doubt going to collect the bill.

"You too," I say bluntly, shoving the door open with my shoulder. I'm halfway out the door when I hear her say, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're closing now. This isn't a twenty-four-hour diner, if you can believe it," she jokes.

I close my eyes and force myself to shut the door, not wanting to hear the response. I get into my car and take a few deep breaths. I tell myself I shouldn't be feeling sad. I don't know her. For all I know, she could be horrible. She could've deserved this. But then I see her in my mind's eye and I know that no one deserves this.

I gain control of myself and pull out of the parking lot, driving away from that diner that sits on the corner of Main Street and St. Putney Avenue. As I glance in my rearview mirror, I pretend not to see the figure that comes stumbling out, one hand holding the too-tight heels and the other covering her mouth.