you click your phone on in your lap; the screen reads 8:02 pm, yet not a single notification. you expected a heads up- a ‘hey i’m running a bit behind’ at the very least, particularly since you’d both agreed to meet at 7 in the cute retro themed diner downtown. the restaurant’s once busy interior has dwindled to a slow bustle in the time you’ve been there, twiddling your thumbs in the booth seat and decaying in wait.
you raise your hand to flag down your waitress, eager to get the check for your water and leave before you can feel anymore embarrassment. you’d never imagined being stood up, especially not on a blind date.
as if on cue, a very apologetic face rushes to be seated across from you; it happens so fast that you feel the breeze of his actions sweep your hair.
“sorry i’m late,” he breathes, smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes, “like really late.”
“no worries,” you assure him. san, you repeat his name in your head. it’s fitting for him: charming, sharp. he’s dressed in black, a thin silver chain slipping underneath the cotton collar of his shirt. there’s a particular warmth to his face that distracts you, albeit temporarily, from the mess that is his hair, “are you alright? you look kind of... disheveled.”
“oh,” he gasps, attempting to smooth down the stray pieces of hair that are much too displaced to have been styled that way, “i, uh, don’t own a mirror. kind of inconvenient in all honesty. would you mind?”
you suppress the smile threatening to seize your lips, feeling the burn in your cheeks as you reach across the table and brush his flyaways back into place. his hair is softer than it looks, and you may have brushed over a couple areas that didn’t need fixed just to feel it between your fingers.
“there we go,” you settle back into your seat, “that’s better.”
he smiles. perfect teeth, even the voice in your head is infatuated with how flawless he is aside from his awful time management.
“oh, i almost forgot,” his voice makes you jump in your skin.
san reaches into the space beside him in the shiny booth seat and pulls out a small bouquet of blushing roses, “i brought you these.”
they’re tied together with a thin white ribbon, and the ends of the stems are jagged and hacked like he had cut them himself with a pair of kitchen scissors.
“aw,” you coo, gladly accepting the flowers, “thank you. you really didn’t have to.”
“i know,” san reassures you, and as you look up to meet his gaze, you feel the skin on your finger break against the tip of a thorn. blood quickly pools at the surface, and you curse under your breath. san continues, “but they’re so lovely, aren’t they?”
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