KATHERINE Womack, bestselling author

I’ve arrived at the location.  The drive into town was nerve rattling.  Myrtle's, face-timed, idled threats,  talked me out of turning around and heading back home. 

 

Meeting him can be good and bad.  The fantasy of loving him, has been as surreal as my truth having no harsh reality.  Why ruin it? I'm already old.  I'm not looking for a husband.

 

Will we still like each other?  Will our chemistry be the same?

 

The valet at the Steak House approaches.  I’m 15 minutes early, chosing to self park.

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 “Find a stall far from the entrance, sit and wait inside your car, to catch a glimpse of him, first.” 

 

Myrtle is amusing.

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 I’m feeling confident in my low-cut, red capped sleeve, Herve Leger dress and up-do, displaying an authentic, Harry Winston Cluster.   Here I am, my biggest critic, looking worth a million bucks, but devalued by discouraging conjecture: 

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“Why am I here?"

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"Am I over-dressed and trying too hard?"  

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"He's a younger man; am I crazy?”  

 

And, most importantly, “I hope, I don’t fall.”

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I’ve borrowed a pair of Lorelei’s, Christian Louboutin platforms.  She has the arch for these--I don't.

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“I’ll call you later, Myrtie!  Kiss Kiss!” 

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I've ended our chat and walked inside.  There is no one sitting in the foyer or at the bar.  

 

“Whew!" 

 

That was close.  

 

I’d hoped to arrive first, anyway. 

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Where is he?  Did he have a change of heart?

 

I’ve texted him:

ARE YOU HERE?

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He texts back:

I’M NOT FAR. APOLOGIES. WORKED LATE. TABLE OR BAR?

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I respond:

TABLE

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His final text:

SEE YOU SOON…LOVE.

 

I’ve requested a table, informing the hostess that I’m expecting someone, providing my name.  My server asks if I’d like a glass of wine. 

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“Absolutely!” 

 

I could have shouted it. 

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I’m waiting, impatiently, with my back facing the entrance, responding to Myrtle's texts.

 

"Is he there yet? Answer me, damn you!" 

 

A candle is the mark of intelligence and perception.  The flame of the single votive, sitting in the table’s center shifts, signaling someone standing behind me.  He’s here.

 

“Hello Fancy.” 

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That voice.  It’s him.