Things of Fiction Thursday #2: Red Wine Reservations

            Sara sat at the table, staring at an empty seat, her water soaking up the bitter lemon juice from the slice of fruit.  She took a look over her left shoulder, the young man walking into the restaurant didn’t look like the person she was hoping to be waiting for.  She checked her pearls to ensure the clasp wasn’t hanging embarrassingly upon her chest.  She touched the poof of her hair, feeling for any small wisps that may be standing astray among her perfectly straightened bob.  She checked the time on her phone.  Seven thirty-two.  He was two minutes late.

            The waiter stopped by the table, “Ma’am, could I get you a drink aside from water while you wait?”  Her mind jumped to the thought of a tequila shot- oh, but what if he walked in while she was in the midst of slamming the shot down and biting her lime.  Maybe a beer, a beer would be nice to calm her nerves.  Oh, but would that read too butch?  Maybe it would scream, “I’m down to earth!”  No, no, it would never match the persona she has designed herself into for the evening.  A martini?  A martini would be so posch.  And intimidating.  No martini.

            “No thank you, my water is fine, thanks.” she said softly.  She could feel the pink filling her cheeks as he made a smooth spin away from the table onto the couple two booths down.  She picked up her glass, struggling to swallow the water she was drawing into her mouth.  It felt like a stone was in her throat.  She had never had a stronger thirst for liquor in her life.

            He’ll never show up, she thought.  Her eyes darting at the people across the restaurant, knowing they were all pointing at her and laughing at the moment of suspense.  No, no, she thought again, we’ve chatted repeatedly.  He likes dogs; I like dogs.  He likes red wine; I like red wine.  His mother is a giant bitch; my mother is a giant bitch.  We are far too in tune with each other for him to not show up.

            I should have given him my number, she continued to ponder as she played with her fingernails (her normal nervous tendency).  I’ve just heard too many horror stories of women who gave out their number just in case and then had to get a new number as the psycho that showed up to the coffee house continued to relentlessly harass them.  I don’t have time for new numbers.

            She began to lightly drag her fingertip around the rim of the glass, making a persistent ringing that vibrated around her cluttered mind.  What if the photo he took was from twenty years ago?  What if he had a potbelly?  What if he was Republican?!  They had never talked politics.  He is probably a Republican.

She checked her watch.  Seven thirty-four.  Four minutes late.  What?  Had the bridge collapsed over the river?  Had a comet struck down on his mother’s house?  What kind of excuse could he possibly have for making her wait like this?!

She felt her heart starting to pick up its pace again, her full face turning a bright red.  She began breathing slowly and deeply- she couldn’t look like she was suffocating when he showed up.  He’d quickly turn around at the sight of her purple face.  Maybe he had, maybe he was running now.  She quickly whipped around in her seat to check the entrance again.  No sign of any men on the run.  Thank goodness.

She tilted her heels to stretch her ankle a bit.  Why had she chosen the fuck-me-pumps?  They always make her calves cramp and have been less-than successful in the past.  Her best friend, Mel made her get them.  Mel’s sex-stilts worked for her, she guaranteed Sara that some day the investment and bloody toes would pay off.  Sara was hoping that night would be tonight.

Sara waved her hand in the air, looking for the waiter.  He made his smooth round about the tables to her side.  “Ma’am?”

“Wine, please.”  She said, “Whatever merlot you recommend.”

“Coming right up.”  He scurried away with quick little steps, determined to get her the drink she had requested.

I shouldn’t have let him choose, she thought, now he’s going to bring out the most expensive one they have at the bar and either I’m going to be stuck with the bill or I’m going to look like a gold digger.  She rolled her eyes at the thought of her dramatic error. She pondered chasing him around and asking for the house red, but knew this would be an even bigger faux pas than anything that could come out of the mistake already made.

She could feel her pits getting damp as the waiter dropped the glass at her table on his way over to an old man waving him down with his bill.  The clock said seven thirty-eight.  I’ll give it two more minutes, she thought, and then I’m out of here.

Maybe he’s trying to be fashionably late and doesn’t understand how that makes a lady feel, she continued to muse.  I mean, he did use online dating to meet me.  Perhaps he’s not a socialite like… well, then again, maybe I was supposed to be fashionably late.  Oh goodness, I’ll bet that was the plan, both of us running fashionably late, and then laughing at the idea of thinking we had both, “nearly missed each other.”

She clenched her perfectly painted pink nails into her fist as she sipped the hearty wine with the other hand.  This really was delicious wine.  Whatever he recommended, she wouldn’t mind taking the whole bottle home in a minute or two.  She checked her phone again.  Still seven thirty-nine.  One more minute bud, she thought.

She picked up her purse, checked its contents, trying to make it look like she was doing something important for the many people around her wondering at her solitude.  Sweet mint gum, check.  Clutch complete with ID and credit card, check.  Lipstick and rouge for touching up with after dinner, check.  Condom... check.  She quickly snapped the purse shut and set it back on the floor beside her chair.

She opened her phone and began scanning through text messages she had received through the day.  Debra asking for her banana muffins recipe, mom reminding her to call her brother for his Birthday tomorrow, Mel wishing her a late night.  She grew tired of reading the texts and checked the time.  Seven forty.

Her stomach dropped out of her butt.  She had been stood up.  Suddenly everyone in the restaurant was covering their smiles and giggles as they pointed in her direction.  The waiter was telling the rest of the staff in the kitchen about the woman, “waiting for no one.”  The host whom she had told someone would be coming looking for her, preparing the table on her sheet for the next reservation.  She knew it, all of them were taking frills in her tragic humiliation.  She began to get up, planning to leave the wine glass behind and drop money on the table to cover whatever it could have cost.  She opened her bag, reached in, and looked toward the entrance- there he was.  Just as his profile picture looked, only this time flustered.  Their eyes met as she slowly closed her purse and sat back down in her chair, smiling.