He checked the time again. He was early, way too early. The restaurant was large, and customers few. He didn’t get out much, but today was his fortieth birthday.
He examined his phone again. Would she be on time? Of course she would; he was certain she wouldn’t disappoint.
At 7.30 on the dot the door opened. She stood uncertain for a moment, eyes scanning unfamiliar faces. ‘David?’ she hesitated, then beamed and headed towards him. A waiter took her coat and she sat down. ‘What a lovely place,’ her painted smile still fixed. He admired her strong, white, even teeth. Her makeup was discreet, the lines around her deadened eyes almost invisible.
He knew not to ask what her day had been like. As always, he’d spent his alone watching gameshows on television. But today was special: he’d ironed a shirt, shaved, and showered.
She said the wine (non-alcohol) was lovely. The starter was lovely. The fish was lovely. The dessert looked lovely: but she mustn’t, she had to consider her figure.
There was so much he wanted to tell her. Where could he start. He mumbled that she looked lovely and then bereft of words, he stared into his steak. Her smile remained undiminished.
At 9.15 exactly, they were in the street. He passed her a brown envelope. She counted the contents: satisfied, she smiled goodbye. She hailed a taxi. She checked her watch: she had fifteen minutes to get to her next client at the Excelsior Hotel.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 