I check my watch, then the clock on the far wall, then my watch again. It’s been 20 minutes since he first texted me saying he’d be late. If I weren’t in one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, I would love to just run my hands through my hair and groan and slam my face down on the table. But, since I am in one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, I can’t. I’m starting to think my date might never show up, and the fact that all I have is ice water and a bunch of spoons isn’t making it much better.

There are a couple of servers bumbling around, taking orders and delivering orders and  delivering the check to every disappointed girl who asked for it. I’m starting to think I’m gonna be one of them.

One of the waitresses with cropped hair brushes past me, spinning in a little circle as she squeezes between tables. She doesn’t seem to have great balance, because I swear she nearly dropped her tray on me. But at this point, having six glasses of wine dropped on me sounds better than being stood up by the guy I’ve been pining over at work for the past six months. And clearly he was pretty enthusiastic for the date, too, because he wanted to come to this huge, fancy restaurant that probably has a head chef with an Italian name that not even my father could pronounce.

It’s not like I have anything to pay attention to, so I let myself zone out, thinking about Italy. It’s such a lovely place. I’ve only been when I was younger to visit family there, but I absolutely love it. All of the houses are painted beautiful pastel colors, and the water is clear and blue and beautiful. My Nonna used to take my sister, Anna, and I down to Rome for the day whenever we visited. She’d buy us chocolates shaped like the Colosseum and braid flowers into our hair and then take us to art museums. Those were always my favorite trips. My Nonna still lives in Modena, and I want to go back and see her and her kind eyes and her greying black hair and eat her zampone. (Zampone is a traditional Modenese dish. Believe me, you don’t want me to describe it. But god, is it good.) We stopped going to Italy when my youngest sister, Natalina, was born, unfortunately. But I’ll go back one of these days, I’m sure.

I’m picturing the wind blowing through my hair as I ride down the streets of Modena to meet my Nonna at the market downtown when someone clears their throat and pulls me out of my daydream. Across the table sits a well-dressed, yet slightly out of breath Dan. He pushes his chestnut hair up out of his face and folds his hands on the table in front of him. He flashes a somewhat hopeful smile.

Then he slumps down with sympathy, saying, “I am so sorry I’m late, Valencia, my roommate wanted me to clean—”

“Clean?” I ask, only barely managing to keep my anger in check. “Clean what? What was so important that you had to—” I stop myself and sigh. “I’m sorry for blowing up like that, but you said you’d be here a half hour ago. I was about to leave.”

“I know, like I said, I’m so, so, so sorry. I mean...” He brushes his hair out of his face again. “I was also kinda nervous, so I had to make sure everything was ok and that the cacti were watered ‘cause god forbid the cacti were dry or my date will go terribly.”

I scoffed, thinking, Well, it's a little late for that. I run my hand through the back of my hair, and it comes through a little greener than before. I rub my hands over the tight black fabric of my dress over my thighs to try and rid my skin of the fresh dye. “Superstitious? Or just a fan of healthy cacti?” I ask, keeping my eyes down on my hands.

“A bit of both, actually, not gonna lie.”

“Well I’m glad to know any future cacti we may have will be well taken care of.”

“They really don’t need much.”

“No, they don’t.”

We both start laughing.

As the conversation’s moving along, I’m thinking maybe I can forgive this guy for being a half hour late to our first date. I mean, it’s a total dick move, but he’s too cute for me to care too much. Surprisingly enough, I’ve never dated another person with brown eyes.

So far, a server hasn’t come to bring menus or ask if he wanted water or anything. Maybe they’re just spiteful too. Who knows.
When someone actually does come, it’s a girl with long, dark red waves pulled up into a messy bun at the back of her head. She’s got these green eyes that you could only read about in a book or something, and I swear they’re like someone put actual emeralds in her eyes, as cliché as that is. She’s got freckles dotted across her nose and cheeks, and for a minute, I forget that I’m even on a date.

And she’s staring right at me.

“Sorry, what?” I ask, then making my first conscious action in the past thirty seconds: closing my gaping mouth.

“She asked if you wanted anything to drink,” says Dan, his tone carrying the slightest tone of desperation.

I sigh.  “Could I see a wine menu?”

If you’ve ever thought about it, the first ten or so minutes of dinner at a restaurant are when the waitress comes by the most. They take your order, refill your drinks, bring your food, but then they’re supposed to leave you alone to eat, right?

Let’s just say I have a knack for getting people’s attention.

“Uhhhermm, yes, can I get a, um...do you want some more mozzarella sticks?” I ask, as we’re halfway through our meal.

“Val, we’re in the middle of eating.”

“Right. Where’s the waitress?”

I spotted her, carrying a large tray of drinks. As she walks by our table I order not one, not two, but three orders of mozzarella sticks, and some nachos to take home. I then ask to change my entreé. And then, once she brings it, I ask to change it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. I get the waitress to visit our table thirty-eight times over the next several hours. I nearly convinced her to eat with us, actually. I even asked her when she was getting off, but I don’t think she read it the way that I intended. I thought I was being flirty and charming. But that just may have been the five glasses of wine talking.

Dan’s seen me drunk before, or at least hungover. I'm running out of fingers to count the number of days I didn't remember it was Wednesday until after my third shot of tequilla. But this, even to me, was ridiculous. I’ve been pining over this guy for how long, and it all goes down the toilet ‘cause the waitress is pretty?

I’m a wreck after the sixth glass. I’m surprised we didn’t get kicked out.

The last thing I remember was trying to kick the chandelier. It was hanging from the high mirrored ceiling above us, a huge, beautiful crystal chandelier. It was probably a very expensive chandelier. But still, I insisted on trying to kick it. I remember climbing on the table and jumping, thinking, That’s a really high-up chandelier. I’ve never kicked something this high up before.
And then I woke up at home.

I’ll never know what happened to Dan, or the chandelier, but he never showed up for work again. I’ll miss his lack of punctuality and our witty banter. I actually saw the waitress on the street a few months later. Red hair, emerald eyes and all. I never tried to make eye contact, but she looked at me with the most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen someone have. Maybe she knows something I don’t.

And I think I’m okay with that.