She sits alone at a table for two,
waiting, watching, wilting, as
second after languid second ambles by.
Her fingers drum on the table,
she reminds herself to not be shy.
She knows she is early, painfully so.
To distract she tugs her neckline up,
smoothes the hemline down.
She absently twirls her spoon,
her reflection stares back up-side down.
Do I look alright,
or is my kohl too dark
or my lipstick too bright?
Should I talk a lot,
bare my soul?
...or maybe not.
Will he like what he sees?
Or will it be an illusion,
for he can't see the real me?
The waiting, the suspense, is mounting,
her confidence a thin veneer.
As the clock strikes nine,
the chimes sing to her,
"He's still not here, he's still not here."
She feels her heart beat wildly,
thumping at a galloping pace.
She hears it echo in her ears,
feels the tingle down to her toes.
She hopes the night won't drown in tears.
Then suddenly without warning the door opens
He's there looking right at her.
One hand out, he holds a rose
and smiles at her
And she just knows.