Ghosting Zoë

Part 3

The following evening, Zoë sat at a table in Beans on the Boulevard, nursing a Pumpkin Spice Swedish Egg Coffee With Caramel Drizzle and holding a volume of Emily Dickinson.

"You do realize you're taking romantic advice from a recluse?" Maple asked.

"Perhaps I should have brought Blake, since he's such a lamb," Zoë said, reminding Maple of her first assessment of Edgar, the guy on whom neither of them had yet to actually lay eyes.

Zoë had enlisted Maple as her date backup, a role unique to 21st century courting. Like a stealthy chaperone, she would sit a few tables away and watch for a high sign from Zoë. If Edgar turned out to be a creep — or worse, crazy — Maple would swoop in with some excuse like a sick aunt or missing cat that needed Zoë's immediate attention.

Truth be told, Zoë's favorite romantic poem was "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," although she thought Dickinson's "Heart, We Will Forget Him" was hauntingly beautiful. Besides, Christopher Marlowe was English, and Edgar's minor was in American literature.

Perhaps it was the java, but Zoë couldn't remember ever being on such pins and needles. As 8 o'clock approached, her arms were so alive with goosebumps that she thought she might honk.

She watched the minute hand on the wall clock reach 12, signaling that H-hour had arrived. "He'll be here any minute," she thought, scanning the room for a man about the right age. "Any minute ..."

A gaggle of prepubescent girls wearing denim jackets over their leotards came in with a couple of Karens for Italian sodas.

Zoë ordered another coffee and two hazelnut turtle brownies and picked nervously at one as she read "After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes." What would he look like, she wondered? Tall? Short? Fair? Dark? Tortoiseshell? Horn-rimmed?

Eight-thirty arrived and still no Edgar. She texted him.

Did you have trouble finding the coffee shop? Are you lost? |

Zoë looked longingly as a couple in their 70s shuffled with their coffees to a table near the window.

Eight-forty-five. She began picking at the second brownie and texted:

Hello! Anyone out there? |

Zoë could sense Maple's doleful eyes burning a hole into the back of her head. The minute hand was clicking off 9:05 when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, chicken," Maple said. "It doesn't look like he's coming."

Zoë pinched a bit of brownie between her fingers, dropped it onto the table and wiped her hand on a napkin lying there. With the napkin crushed in her right fist, she shoved her arms into her hooded cardigan and cinched the belt tight. Slipping the napkin into the right pocket of her sweater, she drifted toward the door with Maple patting her back.

Alone in her car, Zoë sighed heavily and sent one last text ...

Where WERE you? |

Then she started the Beetle and headed home.

Did Edgar have a good reason for standing her up, or is he just playing games? That's the question facing Zoë in Part 4.

This is a complete story to be posted at regular intervals.

R.J. Post is the author of "Lion Taming, Dating and Other Dangerous Endeavors" and "A Shovelful of Winter," which are available on Amazon.