Coffee Date

Dinner Date

The arms of my watch point at 8:15 when I finally make it to the sign that reads Please Wait To Be Seated in bold, curved letters. The warm wind makes the wooden banner over my head swing, making the letters on it twinkle as it goes back and forth. Péché Mignon.

My feet are covered in blisters, my hair is slightly puffy at the edges from my sweat and I can't even begin to imagine what could've happened to my mascara. I quickly pull a mirror out of my purse and wipe under my eyes with my pinky. A dab of powder on my face will have to do to cover up the patches under my eyes and the glistening line on my nose.

I am a mess.

Though that fact comes second on my long list of worries at the moment. It's the second time in three days that I'm late to an important... date. I need to get my life in order. Wincing, I quickly rub the blister inside my shoe as the waiter makes his way towards me. 

"Bonjour, hi," he says, the typical Montreal greeting.

"Hi," I respond. 

"Do you have a reservation?" the man asks with a perfect American accent. His hair is oiled back perfectly in a way that makes me want to take the bucket of ice water that holds the bottle of wine at the table beside us and dunk his head inside it. Everything else about him is just as oiled back and perfect; his crisp white shirt, shiny black shoes, soft, shaved face. His cheekbones look like they've been carved out of granite and his strong, brown eyes are looking at me in the most perverted way I've ever been looked at. The taste of bile fills my mouth.

"I was actually meeting someone here," I tell him. I try to tear away from his predatory gaze, crossing my arms across my chest.

His lips spread in a thin smile.

"What's his name?" he asks.

I freeze. My eyes widen. What's his name? I rub my fingers along my right eyebrow. Did he tell me his name and I just missed it? Why am I going on date with a guy whose name I don't know?

I realize my mouth has been hanging open for a doubtful amount of time and I shut it.

"Let me get back to you on that," I tell him. I step away from his questioning gaze and pull my cell phone out of my purse. I go to contacts and start scrolling through the names that shine into my eyes. I skip to the B's.

Hugo Baldwell

Annie Baldwell

Barista

My finger aims for the name Barista, but my fingers are trembing and I end up clicking on Annie.

"Seriously," I grunt, hanging up the unwanted call. I try again, pressing hard onto the screen, and end up pressing Annie's number again. "God dammnit!" I yell. A few glances are thrown my way in response, but I ignore them. I cover my face with my hands.

What am I doing? Everything around me feels uncomfortable and wrong. The way the trees look like figures walking on the side walk, the way the waiter at the entrance keeps staring at me in an unsubtle way, the humid, oppressing feel of the air, my phone that won't cooperate. I take a deep breath, feeling the air entering my lungs slowly until I can't take anymore and I let out my breath.

It's just the nerves, I tell myself. You're being ridiculous.

I bring my phone back up to my face letting the names shine in my eyes, blindingly white against the darkening sky. My finger approaches the name Barista and slowly clicks on it again. My phone starts to ring and the right name finally pops up on my screen. I don't know whether I feel relieved or newly terrified but I don't have time to think about it before he's answered the phone.