IV. Desperation Smells

I adjust my push-up bra, frowning at my reflection. I’ve never worn anything this low-cut before. It looks exactly the way I want it to look. Still, I’ve never had a one-night stand before. Hell, I’d never have imagined myself in this situation.

I’m hiding in the bathroom of the café across the street because I’m half an hour early and I don’t want to look as desperate as I feel. I took two days off for this—one to cut my hair and shop (my makeup has been expired for two years and my dresses barely fit), and the other for, well, I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen.

I try not to think about the money I’ve spent as I pull the very short dress down my bum for the umpteenth time. My lips are dewy and my hair has been styled with the waves that are popular these days. The eyeshadow around my eyes glimmer, sultry and inviting. I’m contemplating ditching this whole thing but I’ve put in too much effort. At least I look hot.

I straighten. Maybe he won’t show up. I don’t have his number or his name. Just the restaurant, a time and a table number. I’m still fifteen minutes too early, but I’ve been hiding long enough.

I make my way out of the café, regretting my heels as they clack imperiously on the ceramic tiles, turning several heads. My dress hikes up my thighs as I walk and I resist the urge to pull it down again. I keep my eyes straight ahead and pray to Aphrodite that everything vital is covered.

A lanky waiter in his early twenties greets me at the door. I clear my throat and his eyes fly from my cleavage to my face.

“Table 12,” I say.

“Right this way, please.”

He shows me to the table and I’m startled to see that my date is already there. He’s hunched over his phone and he looks like he’s lost a battle with his hair. He also looks concentrated, serious—not an expression I expect to see on him. When he catches a sight of me, his lips curve. “Hey.”

I look at the two cocktails on the table. One of them is empty. How long has he been here?

“I hope you didn’t wait too long,” I say.

“Good things are worth waiting for.” He grins at his own corniness and pockets the phone. His eyes stay on my face when he says, “You look nice.”

It sounds genuine, without implication, and it catches me off guard. I was under the impression this was going to be a fling. A fancy fling, but a fling nonetheless. His being this early, ordering me a drink and the way he’s looking at me are sending my overactive imagination into overdrive.