#its here

You're late.

Clutching your purse, you push through the restaurant door and are immediately flooded by the twinkling ambiance. You glance around wildly to try and spot your poor date, hoping that he hadn't left under the impression you'd stood him up - although you wouldn't have blamed him if he did.

You had tried to call the guy, but your phone died in the taxi - which was coincidentally also running late. The metre ran up a horrid amount too, and you were almost scared to look at your bank account after this evening.

You worry your lip between your teeth, looking around the room with increasing worry until your eyes land on him. The only man sitting alone, and wearing a suit very similar to the one your date had described. It had to be him.

Wasting no time, you hurry on over, stopping a few feet away to quickly fix your hair before you sit down with the biggest apologetic look you could muster. (Obviously missing his raised eyebrow and very clearly perplexed expression.)

"I'm so sorry I'm late! The taxi was stuck in traffic and my phone died--" You pause to take a deep breath, giving him a sweet, sheepish smile, "First round is on me?"

You get a good look at him like this, and you find to think that he certainly downplayed himself over text. He's a beautiful man. Broad, with chiselled features and a clean cut suit, and with such a broody expression that you expect him to get up and leave, to be insulted by your tardiness.

But he smiles, glancing up and down you approvingly, and something just melts inside you like chocolate.

"Nonsense," He rumbles deeply, and your knees meet under the table, "A woman should never buy her own drink."

He waves his hand and a strikingly tall woman seems to appear from nowhere, she herself clad in a pantsuit with awfully similar colouring to his own. She seems utterly unimpressed as she bows close and takes his order, but you still can't help but be a little bit charmed by her aloofness, by the streak of aged grey tinging her coppery hair.

Your drinks arrive soon after, and you clink glasses. Your fruity little drink against his own much stronger one, a beautiful start to a surprisingly delightful evening.

—

You clamber into the taxi home feeling much better about yourself that night. Wined and dined by a dreadfully handsome man, ever so mysterious and charming, you couldn’t help but preen a little under the streetlights racing past, your head leaning dreamily on the window.

So when your phone suddenly buzzes back to life in your handbag, having spent a while connected to your shitty old power bank, you’re baffled by what pops up onto your screen. Before you’re met by the feeling of a cold, horrifying realisation.

Several missed calls and angry, stood up text messages. All coming from the man you were supposed to meet tonight.

You let your phone drop back into your purse, heart racing as the taxi’s old stereo continues to play some gentle ballad in the background, mingling with the drivers idle chatter.