Friday, April 01, 2011
Seated in the restaurant, flowers in my hair, surrounding me with their decadent aroma like a veil of the most expensive perfume I wait. The drink sits on the table in front of me, the obligatory frou-frou tropical confection containing an umbrella and a slice of pineapple. Waiting. I am early by as much as fifteen minutes. The open air seaside restaurant had sand for a floor. I kick off my shoes and curl my toes in it in a concerted effort to calm my racing blood. This is where he asked me to meet him. Would he look the same? How would the years have altered him? They had most certainly altered me. My waist, once flat and girlish, now carried fifteen extra pounds and was rounded in a truly womanly fashion. My hair, still black and long enough to sit on, was subtly shot with grey. Would he notice? Would he care? Waiting.