#words!

Mary appeared in the doorway just as Lily slipped her toothbrush back in its holder. The pair of friends caught each other’s eye in the mirror as Lily started unpinning the rollers from her hair.

“C’mon, since when does anyone look forward to a blind date? Speaking of, you’ve put in a fair bit of effort for this Muriel’s… sister’s… er… whoever’s son. More effort than I’d expect for someone apparently dreading her evening.”

Lily merely shrugged as a reply, uninterested in justifying her pre-date ritual. It was a good ritual, and besides, she deserved to feel like the best version of herself whenever she wanted to.

“Shit,” she exhaled, after catching a look at her watch, “I’m going to be late.”

**

Shockingly, Lily arrived at The Shack, a hip, low-lit bar—“frequented by the young people,” Muriel had told her—ten minutes earlier than the agreed-upon time. She couldn’t stop herself from studying her reflection in the dark glass windows; she brushed her fingers through the mess of curls her hair had become in transit. Breathing deeply and squaring her shoulders, she pushed her way into the bar.

Clusters of people stood every few feet, making the pathway between the tables and chairs into a labyrinth. She wove her way through, an odd determination in her step that clashed with her internal desire to walk right back out the front door. She was supposed to meet Jeff at the bar for drinks and starters and hopefully riveting conversation (Lily wasn’t holding her breath). The semi-circle bartop stretched along a large expanse of the room, barely inhabited at this time of a Friday evening, and Lily couldn’t help herself from admiring the rather nice-looking man tending the bar at the far end.

Eventually, she rounded the bar in search of Jeff, who had been described to her as: tall and handsome. (She didn’t mind a cliché now and again.) Scholarly, and a sharp dresser, if not a bit disheveled. (Whatever that meant.) Dark hair and framed glasses. (She did not mind a nice set of specs to be sure.)

Then she spotted him, sitting across from a stretch of beer taps, shoulders bowed slightly as he studied his phone. As Lily drew closer she watched him press his glasses back up his nose. Even from the admittedly shrinking distance, she could tell he would give the bartender a run for his money. For a moment, a brief, unrelenting irrational moment, excitement flooded her system; it burned in her veins, sent bubbles straight to the logical part of her brain, then—

“Hi, you must be J—” A set of hazel eyes locked with hers and her jaw dipped lower, all the buzz of excitement leaving her. “You’re not…” Jeff.

Oh no.

Oh—but, wait had it been Jeff? Maybe she had heard the wrong name—

“Oh Christ, you are the Lily that Auntie Mabel… I had no idea, Evans, I assure you.”