borderline / muke

one

luke

I could literally feel everyone's eyes on me. It was probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but I was usually good at picking up on those sorts of things. I felt sweaty and itchy, my hands reaching to claw at my clammy skin.

The pitying looks were drilling into my skull. I'd purposely picked a booth closer to the back of the restaurant in order to avoid as much human interaction as possible, but I felt like I stuck out. It wasn't so bad at first, sitting alone, but then the blonde waitress kept coming over to ask if I was ready to order and I was panicking and repeatedly telling her that no, I was not ready. I was waiting for someone. But I could only stall for so long.

My chest tightened. I tried to take slow sips of the water that was placed in front of me, but the knot in my throat would not disappear. I gently pressed the home button on my phone, the large numbers telling me that it was almost quarter to nine. I'd been sat in this booth for forty five minutes, waiting, because that's what I do. I wait. Whether the thing I'm waiting for actually comes or not, I'm still there.

Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, begging to be released. But I would not cry in front of all these pitiful looks. I was not going to give them something to feel sorry for. So I called the blonde waitress over and finally ordered the food she was desperately trying to shove down my throat.

As I sat there and anticipated my food being done, I tried my hardest to be angry. But there was no real heat behind it. I wasn't pissed off, I was upset. Although I was doing it to myself. I should have learned by now that promises were not meant to be kept.

I could picture Calum perfectly in my head. He would be sat shirtless on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, a cigarette stuck between his fingers. A vodka bottle would be upright next to him as a companion. His eyes would be bloodshot and trying their hardest to focus on the television, but they'd be slowly drooping lower and lower. Leftover white powder would litter the table, slowly blowing across the surface due to the ceiling fan. Eventually he'd be almost asleep and then it would dawn on him that he could not let his high be wasted, so he'd call a few of his friends over.

As he got ready, he'd see something in his apartment that reminded him of me, vaguely remember that we probably made plans, but then there'd be a knock at the door, and the thought would disappear.

A steaming plate was set down in front of me, the strong aroma of sauce filling my nose. The blonde waitress gave me an innocent smile and then she was gone, tending to tables with couples that actually remembered each other.

I ate quickly, just wanting to get the fuck out of there. I was uncomfortable, unshed tears blocking my throat so bad I could barely swallow.

I reached into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet. Right as my fingers brushed the bills that were tucked safely inside, loud bumping sounded from the other side of my table.

"Jesus Christ, I am so sorry I'm late. Traffic out there is fucking ridiculous," a red haired boy said loudly, sliding into the booth messily. He let out a deep breath, like he ran sll the way in here, then leaned gently over our table. "My name's Michael. Just play along, okay? Whoever stood you up is a real asshole."