“I am waiting for someone, thank you.” I say to the waiter for the third time. I don’t think he believes me anymore. He just keeps coming around and filling my cup of coffee. I am so glad when he does this because I have been drinking it as if it was the only way to breathe. Every time he fills up my cup, I also have something to do, something that takes my eyes off the clock above the kitchen door. I take the cream and slowly pour it into the black coffee, trying to watch the very point at which the two blend. Then I carefully spoon three teaspoons of sugar into the cup. I watch every granule it seems. Then I stir. As I stir, I look out the window hoping to see your coat flapping against your legs. You would be hurrying because you are dreadfully late. I would follow you with my eyes through the wall and hit the door the same instant you did and you would see me looking at you. You would rush over to me, lift me by my elbows into your arms, and kiss me all the while explaining why you have left me in the cafe for three hours alone. Everything would b e all right then.
“No, I don’t care for a menu, just more coffee please.” I think the waiter is getting anxious. He shouldn’t worry, when you get here, we’ll leave him a huge tip and he’ll be glad he was so courteous to me. The clock on the wall is going excessively fast. I look at my watch but they seem to be synchronized. The door opens and I think it is you, but it’s only a man with the same coat. It will be dark in a few hours and I would hate to take the subway alone. I’m sure you’ll have a good excuse.
The waiter asks if I want my cup warmed up again. He puts extra emphasis on “again” like he’s irritated. I tell him that I would like that very much and is there a phone I could use. I explain that you are supposed to be here and you would never keep me waiting like this. The waiter nods his head as if to say, “I understand” and lets me use his cell phone.
I call your personal line and you answer. You are not on your way or even stuck in traffic. You are still sitting in your office like nothing is wrong! I push END and know that is exactly what it is. I am such a fool. I drink the last of my coffee black and hot and leave the waiter a twenty on the table. I am shaking all over but I can’t tell if it is the caffeine or the fact that you have completely humiliated me again.
I take a cab to the building you work in. I take the elevator up to the seventh floor and step into the lobby of your law firm. I walk past your secretary who is getting up from her desk to stop me but I ignore her and am too fast for her anyway. You have a beautiful window in your office and the sky is clear blue behind you as you look up from your monitor. Our eyes meet for the eternity of an accusing second before I pick up the monitor and pitch it out the window. The sound of glass breaking tingles through every nerve in my body; the look on your face is priceless.
“That is the last time I get stood up by you…EVER.” I hiss at you. I don’t know if it is adrenaline, caffeine, or a sweet, dark mixture of the two, but I jump on top of your desk and kick you in the head and watch the blood splatter on what’s left of your window. You stumble backwards; I am surprised because I didn’t think I kicked that hard. I guess my Doc Martins are tougher than I thought. I want you to stumble right out of that window but this is not the first time you’ve disappointed me.
I jump down from the desk and grab your fish bowl off the shelf. I unzip my jeans and proceed to squat bare-assed over it and pee into the water. You are rushing over to me, a huge red bloodied bruise flaring out from your pale white face. I meet your groin with the toe of my beloved Docs and promise to call your wife on the way out.
I plan to do just that as soon as I flatten all of the tires on your BMW and fill the gas tank with sugar.
(See? I told you it was the “crazy chick” version!!)