I stared at him, "So we just never speak again?"
He looked toward the café.
"Same table. Same time. One year from today."
I laughed. "You're serious?"
"Completely."
"That might be the dumbest idea I've heard all week."
"Was it a bad week?"
"Very."
"Then I have competition."
I should have asked for his email. His address. His last name.
I should have found a pen and written my number on his arm.
Instead, I said, "Fine."
He held out his hand. "Four o'clock."
I shook it. "Four o'clock."
Then we walked in opposite directions.
For the next year, I occasionally wondered whether that had actually happened.
I dated two people.
Neither lasted.
I got the promotion eventually.
My mother continued trying to reorganize my life.
And every few weeks, something reminded me of Adrian.
Olives.
A pigeon.
A man reading the same book he'd been carrying.
By February, I knew I was probably going back.
By April, I definitely was.
By yesterday, I felt ridiculous.
And now it was 4:42 p.m.
Still no Adrian. At five, I stopped looking at the door.
I finished my coffee.
At 5:14 p.m., I stood.
That was it.
I felt embarrassed by how much it hurt.
We hadn't been in a relationship.
We hadn't even kissed.
I'd spent three hours with a stranger and somehow turned a weird promise into something meaningful.
Apparently, he hadn't. I put on my coat.
