He stands unsure of himself as he waits for her to arrive. He doesn’t know her. It is too early to be a blind date, perhaps he is interviewing her. Her?
He comes up to me, asking, “Are you Deborah?” Oh, his nervousness is such that I wish I could say yes, I am, and I want to meet with you.
He’s not handsome. Too thin to be truly healthy looking, but probably healthy. He orders a cup of coffee, and darts about the coffee shop, hot mug teetering on its coaster, searching each face to determine who is there.
I was early. I sat next to the window, to bask in what little light was available on the close of such a dreary day. He sits in the middle of the room, eyes fixed to the door, waiting the whole time I am there. I left, and he was still sitting there. Sitting and waiting and drinking his now cold coffee.