Oh my god is that guy staring at me? I see a tall, dark figure in my peripheral vision; I dare not look. I shift my nylon-covered thighs on the park bench and watch the people passing by. A tiny dog wearing a pink sweater trots behind its owner, nails tip-tapping on the sidewalk. Cute, I think, and smile; I catch a glimpse of the figure moving. I slide my eyes ever so gently toward him and act coy. A cool breeze blows a loose strand of hair in front of my face and tickles my mouth; I tuck it into place.

   

     He’s looking at me – act natural. 

​

     I pinch the nylon between my fingers, wincing when I accidentally take a piece of skin with it. I had a date this afternoon. Got all dressed up and he bailed last minute, but not before I paid the cab driver thirty-five bucks to get here. Pathetic, I scoff, and roll the warm paper mug between my hands before taking a sip. Coffee rolls down my chin; I awkwardly wipe it with the back of my sweater and look at the stain. The figure looms off to the side, large and brooding. A young couple walks by holding hands. I scrunch up my nose at them. Whatever.

     Damn, I should have brought a book. It’s nice weather for it too, “sweater weather”: crisp, breezy, romantic. Scents of spice and pine float on the wind.  I lean back on the bench and cross my legs, right over left, womanly, like an adult. I wonder if the guy sitting over there also got stood up. I imagine him putting on his best pair of jeans – the ones without the holes – and digging his nice boots from the back of the closet, bouncing to his favorite song while gargling mouthwash, and trying not to check his phone for the millionth time (guilty). When he gets there– a café, perhaps – with knots in his stomach, he gets a ping! It’s from Jessica, that bitch, I think.

​

     JESSICA: Hye, I’m sooo sorry, something came up and I can't make it today…rain check?

​

     Gutted, he strolls the cobblestone streets until he finds his way here – to this park – and sits down on that bench over there. I feel sorry for him. My eyes widen and I inhale sharply.

​

     What if we were meant to find each other here?

     Like that one movie…what’s it called? The one with that actor, the hot one.

 

     It’s perfect. Boy and girl get bailed on by their respective dates; all dressed up with nowhere to go; BAM! destiny brings them together...they fall in love (obviously). Come to think of it, I look really pretty right now; lucky for him, too, cause I never look this nice. I brush my hair behind my ear, unwarranted this time due to the lack of breeze. Maybe that’s why he’s been staring; he’s smitten…enamored…mesmerized. I shift my gaze to the left to make sure he’s still there; yep, still there. An old man shuffles past me; his walker makes a hollow rattling sound on the bumpy cement. He doesn’t look at me and keeps going straight. My head follows him as he passes; I watch him until the rattling is out of ear-shot.

     He’s mysterious, I think, and so intense; looking at me like that for so long. Talk about prolonged eye contact. Well, prolonged his-eyes-to-my-ear contact. A real-life Heathcliff or Darcy (I prefer Mr. Darcy). Fuck Jared, I conclude. I should do something to show him I’m interested and approachable – open my body language, maybe, like I saw in that one video. I roll onto my hip, drape my arm across the back of the bench with elegance, and kick my leg out, toe pointed. My other arm rests on my lap, still holding my – now, lukewarm – drink. Nice, I think, and give the ground in front of me a flirtatious smile.

     A gust of wind kicks up; I see him move out of the corner of my eye. Oh god, I think he’s coming over here – Act natural, act natural. I take another sip of coffee – but don't taste it – and look out into the hazy distance, forlorn, with pursed lips – totally approachable. A rush of prepared responses jumble in my mind. As I wait for him to come over, I imagine what his opening line might be, and try to match it with the best response.

     A few minutes go by – nothing. I feel a twinge of frustration. To show my impatience, I bounce my dangled foot and lean my head against my palm. I won’t wait forever, I tell him, but start to think maybe my body language was a little too open. I uncross my leg and plant both feet on the ground again, then down the rest of my coffee – now cold. The breeze chills me and I notice my thighs are starting to go numb on the cold wooden bench. I wish I had worn my heavier – uglier – coat. Nobody's walked by in a while. Looks like I’m gonna have to do all the work – typical.

     I hop to my feet and adjust the purse strap over my shoulder. Slowly, I start on the winding path that would take me past him. My eyes look forward lazily; I try to look cool, bored, no-big-deal-like. I see his dark shape in the distance as I close in. My heels make solid, feminine knocks on the bricks below. I’m getting closer. 

    

     Now’s your chance!

     My heart flutters; palms sweat.

    

     I bring a fist to my mouth and squeeze out a dry cough as I turn my head to the man, in three quarter view – my best angle.

 

     My left foot meets my right.

     I stop. Stunned.

     The wind kicks up my skirt.

     My cup drops to the ground and swivels.

     I gape at the large figure in front of me: a trash can.