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A Chapter by Maxine

Ana is stood up by her boyfriend.

One hour, twenty-three minutes, and eight seconds late.

Three raspberry iced tea " lemonades late.

Forty-seven hopeful door glances late.

Sixty-two phone checks late.

The other diners have begun to notice. I keep getting apologetic looks and encouraging little smiles. Is my pitifulness that obvious? Do I really look as desperately miserable as I feel?

“Miss, is there anything else I can get you?” The waiter can barely make eye contact. I give him the no, I’m sure he’ll be here really soon speech. I can feel my flush rising, another apologetic smile and a pat on my shoulder. Pathetic level has reached an all-time high.

I should have known better. I should have known at seven o’clock this morning when he was brushing his stupid, manipulative, cheating mouth full of stupid, white teeth. I should have known it was another lie. He’s probably making stupid, gooey eyes with that "whomever-she-is" cheating witch right now while I sit here like a pathetic idiot. I bet it’s stamped right on my forehead. “Cheater-forgiver”; “Stupid-second-chance-giver”; “Too-afraid-to-be-alone-that-she’ll-take-anything-that-gives-her-attention”.

He’s an a*****e. And I’m an idiot. There is something wrong with me. First real boyfriend and I pick a manipulative, psychotic, lying, cheating, prick. Good job, Ana. Good job.

One hour, thirty-two minutes, and twelve seconds late.

Not going to show up, late.

Never had any intention of showing up, late.

Getting my favorite dress dry-cleaned because it makes me feel extra pretty all for nothing, late. Four-inch heels, wasted. And I hate heels! I wore heels, and a dress, and I did my freaking hair and make-up, and that b*****d didn’t even bother to show up. Or call and at least have the bloody curtesy to pretend to still be at work or in a meeting.

We all know he’s probably got his hands all up on some bimbo somewhere but for one night; one stupid little night when I wanted to feel pretty and like we could make all this work and that maybe all the fighting was worth it, he couldn’t even bother to call and pretended to have work so I wouldn’t have gotten all dressed up and wasted my time and my hope. I could have called Lily and had a pajama night laden with male-hating-rants, chick-flicks, and enough ice cream to drown myself in. Just avoided this entire horrible night from the start.

I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m so, so, so silly and so dumb to have even thought he had changed. But I had believed him. I let him lull me into his lies and make me think he’d changed and that he was really, truly sorry this time.

My eyes flicker back to the doors. As if by some miracle, he’ll walk in and everything would just be some exaggerated part of my imagination.

One hour, forty-six minutes, and twenty-two seconds late.

Clearly, it’s not my imagination. And I think now it’s finally time to just go home.

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