This is it. This is the moment.
The exact point in time where a perfectly reasonable woman becomes a flight risk.
I set my cup down with care, because I am still, somehow, a person who was raised with manners.
“Br—” I start, then trail off before committing to a name I’m only sixty percent confident in, “I’m going to stop you right there.”
He blinks, hope flickers in his eyes. It is wildly misplaced.
I glance at my watch, feign surprise tinged with shock and horror. “Oh! Well. Would you look at that.” I’m on my feet in less than two seconds flat. “I forgot, I need to go meet…”
I let the words trail off, because I’ve got nowhere to be, but I really want to be anywhere else but here.
“Oh, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m in no hurry.”
I give him a tight smile that probably looks more like a warning label and pivot toward the door, weaving through tables like my life depends on it—which, at this point, feels only mildly dramatic. I figure if I can get out of here fast enough, he may even forget I was here. Hopefully he’ll turn to the next person and start talking to them about an open sore I hope never to see.
But it does not deter him. Not one little bit. This one is like a dog with a bone. Or a fungal infection. He’s on his feet, and following right behind me as I navigate my way to the door.
“It’s good for me to walk, you know,” he announces as we step out onto the sidewalk. “Helps with circulation.”
This really cannot be the hill he’s going to die on.
“I really should…”
“Fresh air is good, but walking is so important,” he continues,nodding like we’ve mutually agreed on this plan. “Even more so when you’re dealing with?—”
We are not circling back to the foot. We are not.
I pick up my pace just enough that, one would think, someone might take the hint. Enough that anyone with even a passing awareness of social cues would observe,Oh, she’s trying to leave.
But this guy, he matches me stride for stride.
Downtown is quieter than usual—Monday quiet. It’s still busy but not quite bustling yet. The kind of quiet I usually love. The kind where the streets feel slower, like the whole world collectively decided to take a breath as it slowly rolled into Monday morning. My kind of vibe. Usually.
Today, it also feels like there are exactly zero witnesses to my discomfort, which is a problem.
I glance toward a boutique across the street—closed. Next door, the little stationery shop I sometimes duck into when I need a reset—dark windows, sign flipped.
Unbelievable. Doesn’t anyone open before noon on a Monday around here? Or just open at all?
This is why I protect Mondays like they’re a personality trait. Because Sundays are a lie. Sundays are “technically closed” but somehow still involve emails and last-minute customers and fixing things that should have been fixed three days ago.
Mondays are mine. Or they were, before I made eye contact.
Beside me, he’s still talking. Something about resilience now. Or healing. Or possibly how those two things connect to whatever is happening inside his shoe.
I stop listening. Instead, I scan.
There has to be an out. A corner I can turn. A person I know. A door I can slip through and lock behind me like I’m fleeing a low-stakes but deeply annoying crime.
Do you know what’s truly frustrating about this? I have a system. A very good system, actually.
Any time I go on a date, I tell one of my girlfriends. We havea deal: twenty minutes in, she calls. No questions asked. It’s an out. A lifeline. A perfectly timed emergency that gets me out of whatever situation I’ve politely walked myself into.
I have both saved and been saved by that call more times than I can count. It’s foolproof.
Except, apparently, when the date-you-went-on-once appears out of nowhere and ambushes you in broad daylight while you’re minding your own business with a book and a croissant.
