I spent a year wondering whether one strange afternoon had meant as much to him as it did to me. Then I returned to our table and waited.
At 4:17 p.m., I started wondering if I had made a complete idiot of myself.
I was sitting alone at a tiny corner table in Rue Café, staring at the front door every time it opened.
A couple came in.
Then an older woman carrying three shopping bags.
Then two teenagers.
Not him.
The waiter passed my table for the third time.
"Still waiting?"
I looked at the empty chair across from me.
"Apparently."
He gave me a sympathetic smile and walked away.
At 4:23 p.m., I checked the time again.
Twenty-three minutes late.
I told myself that wasn't terrible.
Traffic existed.
People missed trains.
Cars broke down. Maybe his watch was slow.
Maybe he'd forgotten whether we'd said four or four-thirty.
Except we had said four.
Exactly four.
One year ago.
At this exact table.
And that was the stupid part.
I didn't have his phone number.
I didn't know his last name.
I didn't even know whether he still lived in the city.
All I had was a promise made by a stranger 12 months earlier.
"Same table," he'd said.
"Same time."
Then he'd smiled.
"Exactly one year from today."
At 4:31 p.m, I stopped pretending I wasn't disappointed.
My name is Emily.
The previous year, I'd walked into Rue Café after one of the worst afternoons I'd had in months.
