Fiction Friday: Meet-Cute
Meet-Cute
Ronald twisted the gold band from his finger and let it clink into the cupholder in the center console of his car. He flipped the visor down and gave himself a final once over in the tiny mirror. Laura hadn’t noticed his new haircut yesterday, hadn’t noticed his new shirt or new cologne this morning as they both had dressed. It had been some time since she had noticed anything about him at all, it seemed.
11:17am the clock on the dash read. And he knew what she’d be doing. He pictured her now in the old brown sweater she loved, her hair pulled away from her face except for the wisp that always escaped its confines and danced across her forehead. She’d be leading her class of six-year-olds to the cafeteria. She’d be thinking he was at the office like always. That is, if she thought of him at all. As though to outrun the thought of her, Ronald sprung from his car actually clutching the yellow rose between his teeth in his haste to pocket his car keys and shut the door.
He faced the café. Some hero of romance.
The café was one of those hole-in-the-wall places on the other side of town, with faded yellow curtains suspended halfway up the glass. The perfect meeting spot, far from home, daily routines and normal routes. Ronald didn’t hesitate, willed himself not to think. But straightening his shoulders, he clutched the yellow rose in his conspicuously naked left hand as he pulled open the café door.
The bell on the door rang, a dead metal sound with no vibration in it.
“Excuse me,” Ronald said in a low whisper, stopping the busy waitress in her tracks.
“It’s seat yourself, honey,” she said her voice like rubbing paper together.
“Yes, but, you see, I’m here for the first time, that is to say, I’m meeting someone. An old friend and I wondered if perhaps you might – ”
The waitress shifted her weight from one orthotic sole to the other while Ronald stuttered and understanding sent her eyebrows to the sky as she eyed the yellow rose. “You’re, old friend is around there,” she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder. “Last booth on the right,” she called as she plunked thick ceramic plates of fat-slicked burgers and cold fries onto a table before equally greasy patrons.
Ronald’s heart pounded through his fingers as he approached the last booth on the right. The sides of the red vinyl-covered dining area were so high he could only just make out the top of a woman’s hair. But the yellow rose that matched his own had been placed ever so carefully on the edge of the table beckoning the midmorning tryst.
“What a beautiful flower,” Ronald said only a moment before reaching the table. The woman’s gasp thundered familiarity in his ears as he came into view and their eyes met.
“Laura.” Her name scraped through his suddenly dry throat.
“Ron, I can explain,” she said, but fell silent when she saw the flower in his hand.
