I glance at my phone, double-checking that it’s exactly 8 p.m. We agreed to meet at 9, but being early is always better, right? The minutes tick by, and the impatient waitress shoots me glances every couple of minutes. I’ve been at this restaurant since 7 p.m., unwilling to risk being late for this date. It’s my first one since my devastating breakup last summer. My psychiatrist warned me that time isn’t on my side, urging me to be punctual.

8:10 p.m. rolls around, and the waitress, wearing a forced smile, approaches me. Her impatience is palpable as she asks if I’m ready to order. I calmly inform her, for the fifth time, that I’m waiting for my date. An irritated sigh escapes her lips as she explains that the restaurant gets busy on Saturday nights, and they need the table for customers.

With a sense of resignation, I contemplate ordering a small bottle of wine and some breadsticks. I don’t want my date to think I have a drinking problem or anything. After all, I’m almost 35, and settling with a good man is becoming increasingly urgent. The waitress nods, taking note of my request, and retreats to fulfill it. Moments later, the wine and breadsticks arrive, but they’re both disappointing. The wine tastes cheap, and the breadsticks are stale. I silently curse my decision to choose this restaurant for our date.

8:20 p.m.

An argument erupts at the adjacent table. A stern voice pierces the air as a woman expresses her disdain for dining out like this. The man sitting across from her responds defensively, berating himself for attempting to do something nice for her. The annoyance in their exchange grates on my nerves. I motion for the waitress, requesting a table change, but she reluctantly informs me that the restaurant is packed with people, leaving no other options.

“But what if my date gets quickly irritated? This date has to go perfectly,” I lament, reminding the waitress of my urgency. “As I mentioned before, I’m almost 35, and I need to settle with a good man. I’m hoping he’s tall and handsome.”

The weary smile on the waitress’s face reveals her indifference as she promises to inform her manager. Time continues to slip away, and it’s now 8:30 p.m. The argument intensifies at the neighbouring table. Frustration fills the air as the man persists in making the situation about himself. I let out an audible sigh, hoping to draw their attention, but they remain immersed in their dispute. Some of us are trying to prepare for our dates.

Once again, I beckon the waitress, growing increasingly agitated. “You can’t possibly expect me to sit here! These two are driving me insane!”

Confusion furrows the waitress’s brow as she asks, “Who?”

I turn my head towards the adjacent table, only to find it empty. When did they leave? I’m momentarily taken aback by their sudden disappearance.

“Well, thank God they decided to take their argument elsewhere. My date should be here any minute, and I need to be in a good mood for him,” I explain to the waitress. “He’s an architect, you know? I have a feeling he might even propose tonight. Like I said, I’m almost 35, and settling with a good man is a priority.”

The waitress musters a polite smile while nodding. She asks when he will arrive, and I assure her that he likes to be early.

8:50 p.m.

The neighbouring couple’s argument reaches a boiling point. Their voices reach a crescendo, and I can’t help but roll my eyes in exasperation. Break up already; some of us are planning our future marriages here.

The woman’s voice trembles with frustration as she speaks, “Work keeps me away, and all I want is to spend some quality time with you. But it feels like you’re settling for me, as if I’m not good enough. I’ve rejected your proposals three times, and now you’re pushing me away. What more can I do?”

I find myself growing increasingly irritated by their melodrama. Enough is enough.

“Maybe you should just leave. Clearly, you’re too good for me, so what’s the point of holding on?” she declares, rising from her seat and storming away.

The man sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He raises a finger to signal the waitress, resignation etched on his face. “Check, please.”

Finally, I think, relieved that their spectacle has ended. I eagerly await the departure of the man, excited to reclaim the peace and solitude necessary for my romantic endeavour.

9:10 p.m.

The waitress approaches me once more, her eyes betraying a mixture of sympathy and impatience. She requests that I leave, as I have been occupying the table for far too long. Not ready to give up just yet, I quickly concoct a story to buy myself more time.

“My husband is on his way,” I fib, hoping to elicit some understanding. “He must be facing difficulties at work. Let me just give him a call to check.”

I dial his number, feigning surprise as I answer, “Um, yes, I thought we agreed to meet at 9. Is everything okay?”

The voice on the other end sounds perplexed. “We already met, at 7. . .”

I pause, struggling to recall the events of the evening. “Oh, right,” I mumble, embarrassment colouring my cheeks.

“You stormed out of the restaurant, remember?” he continues, frustration lacing his words. “Are you okay? You made it clear that you didn’t want to be with me because I’m too good for you or something. Is this another one of your games? Because I’m done playing around with you. Goodbye.”

The call ends, leaving me stunned and disheartened. How could I have forgotten? I sit there, the weight of my actions settling heavily upon me.

9:20 p.m.

The waitress returns, her gaze filled with a mix of curiosity and pity. She inquires about the whereabouts of my date, and I confess that we have once again parted ways.

“Can I get the check, please?” I request, my voice tinged with disappointment.

As I settle the bill and prepare to leave, a profound realization dawns upon me. Perhaps it’s time to reevaluate my approach to love and relationships. Maybe obsessing over settling and arbitrary timelines has led me astray.

Leaving the restaurant, I step into the night, my determination now a mere facade against the relentless march of time. The weight of missed opportunities and unfulfilled desires settles upon my shoulders, dragging me further into the abyss of despair. The stars above seem distant and indifferent, mocking my feeble attempts to find solace in their twinkling light.

With each passing moment, time reveals its cruel nature, unraveling the threads of hope that once held my fragile heart together. Reality slips through my fingers like sand, elusive and ever-changing, blurring the boundaries between dreams and the harsh truth. I grasp at fragments of memories, desperately trying to hold on to something tangible, but they slip away like whispers carried away by the wind.

Details of that night become a maze of forgotten faces and faded moments, a labyrinth that only further entangles my already frayed mind. Shadows dance in the corners of my vision, taunting me with fleeting glimpses of what could have been, but never was. The world around me warps and distorts, as if mocking my futile attempts to make sense of it all.

Did we meet? Did I end it?

When did it all happen?

As I walk deeper into the night, a creeping sense of detachment takes hold. The city, once vibrant and alive, now feels like a hollow shell, its bustling streets echoing with the emptiness of my own existence. Time becomes a relentless adversary, stealing away the moments I long to cherish, leaving me adrift in a sea of fading memories.

Reality fractures, and I find myself questioning the very fabric of my being.

Was it a mere illusion?

Have I become a ghost, haunting the remnants of my shattered dreams?

The lines between past, present, and future blur into an indistinguishable haze, leaving me lost and disoriented in this cruel dance with time. In the depths of my despair, I realize that the world has moved on without me. Love, fulfillment, and happiness remain elusive mirages, forever out of reach.

The painful truth dawns upon me: I am but a mere specter, condemned to wander through the fading remnants of my own existence, forever yearning for a reality that slips further away with each passing second.

Will time stop for me? Just a minute to catch up with my reality?

As I fade into the night, my grasp on reality loosens, and I surrender to the merciless hands of time. Lost in the labyrinth of my own mind, I become a tragic figure, a casualty of the cruelty of time and the fragility of human existence.

---

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Anxious Thoughts

Navigating life’s uncertainties, one word at a time