“I said could you get away from me and give me space?” The air crunches. “I was here first. There is absolutely no need to stand this close to me. Wait your turn. You are being incredibly invasive.”
The woman inhales loudly through wide nostrils and the air is suddenly full of red and black dots, like scattered fruit gums.
“How very rude you are,” she sniffs. “Outrageous behavior.”
She stomps back to her little booth, where a distinguished-looking man is waiting—probably her husband; they match like socks—and says something in a low voice until they both turn to glare at me as if they believe the combined power of their eyes is going to pick me up and carry me through the window. I clear my throat and look away, feeling their eyes on my skin like insects. It’s genuinely bewildering. She hurts me, yet when I ask her to stop, I get insulted? Where is the logic, I ask you?
At least time is nearly up now, so I make my final choice—pancakes, plain, low-risk option—and sit back down to finish waiting.
Thirty seconds to go. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight, twenty-seven...
Adrenaline starts to race.
Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two...
I’m someone who, being told a package will arrive at some point between two and three, starts waiting by the door at 9:00 a.m. like an anxious poodle, whining every time they hear a car.
Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen...
It’s like I have my very own standby mode and I can’t do anything else until it’s been turned off again; one phone call can wipe out an entire weekend.
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two...
Will’s not here.
He’s not here, he’s running late, and the second he’s officially late, time starts to warp again. I don’t feel suspended anymore. I’m not just dangling: I feel tugged, as if someone has slipped millions of tiny hooks under my skin and now they’re silently ripping me apart.
One, two, three, four, five, six...
He wasn’t late for our first brunch, was he? No, he was six minutes early. I remember distinctly, because Will only started being consistently late after date six. It started with a minute or two here or there, and it eventually got to a point where it was regularly thirty minutes, punctuated with apologetic and detailed text updates on his whereabouts. As if I wasn’t just sitting wherever we were supposed to meet, casually stretched across time like a pig on a meat hook.
When it hits five minutes, I start to hyperventilate.
By ten, I’m in tears.
By twenty minutes late, my brain is starting to pulse in and out like a jellyfish, there’s unbearable pressure behind my eyes, everything is starting to spin slightly and I think I’m about to pop and coat the brunch place with a thin, shiny layer of Cassandra Dankworth. The lady and her husband are staring at me again, so I follow their eyes and become vaguely aware that I’m rocking in my seat and clawing at my forearms with my nails, just to release some of the time trapped inside me.
Unable to handle it any longer, I grab my phone:
Where are you? :)
In my defense, I normally say nothing at all.
I’ve learned my lesson the hardest possible way, so I now prefer to sit and be quietly tortured, then passive-aggressively say oh, there you are with a tight smile when whoever it is finally rocks up, but honestly, if this relationship is going to work long-term, then Will’s going to need to meet me in the middle. Or at least be consistently late, so I can plan around it.
My phone beeps:
In bed. ;)
Another rush of woozy anger, like hot mustard.
You haven’t even left yet?
My eyes are prickling.
????
Stay calm, stay calm, stay—
You know, Will, when you waste my time like this it’s really disrespectful. It’s like you think your time is more valuable than mine. It is not. You need to start being where you say you’re going to be, exactly when you say you’re going to be there. Just because I have plenty of time doesn’t mean I want to spend it waiting for you. Thank you.
Cassandra.
Okay, I’ve really lost my temper now: you can tell because I’ve slipped into old-lady’s-complaint-letter-to-a-newspaper format.
My phone beeps:
What the hell are you talking about?
Waiting for me where?
Confused, I blink at my phone screen.
Then I plummet, hard.
With mounting terror, I scroll quickly through my messages, looking for the conversation we had yesterday about brunch. We had it, over and over again. We arranged to meet here, just as we did for our original first date, six times.
Except the conversation is gone.
Which means—Oh my God.
I wrote Text Will back on my notepad, then deleted it with my time Etch A Sketch and forgot to remind myself again in the narrative I left behind. I didn’t text him back. Will isn’t late: I never arranged this date with him in the first place. I left him hanging, then yelled at him in writing, and it’s starting to really hit me now that continuity is becoming a massive problem.
Will has been late dozens of times: it seems unfair that the one time I kick off I’m in the wrong bloody universe.
Quickly, I text back:
Sorry! That was meant for someone else! Hahaha.
Just in case any fragment of this terrible thread gets left behind.
Then I close my eyes.
When I open them again, I’m standing by the menu. The gray-haired woman takes a step toward me, and I abruptly turn around and walk back to my booth: I think that’s enough aggression for one day, Cassandra.
Quickly, I text:
Hey! I’m so sorry for the delay! Work is crazy. I’d love brunch! How about we hang out tomorrow instead? Cxx
I refuse to do Friday again: not even if Will was Odysseus himself.
An immediate beep.
No worries! That would be great!
Sunday is my favorite day anyway.
Let’s do something fun. :) Wx
Fun? Fuck. Now it looks like I have to upgrade our brunch date to something more exciting and romantic, just to apologize for being a bitch in a version of the universe Will doesn’t even remember.
I’ll think of something super fun—leave it to me! Meet at 10? :) Cx
Beep.
Perfect! Wx
Relieved, I stand up and look at my watch. It’s nearly midday now, which means our second second date starts in roughly twenty-two hours. That’s—I quickly calculate—nearly 80,000 seconds of stretching myself across time like a clothesline between two garden fences.
I think I deserve every single one of them.
And I go home to wait.
18
“Good morning!” Will walks toward me, grinning like a handsome salamander. “You look disarmingly beautiful today, Cassie.”
I bloody should: I’ve had nearly an entire weekend to prepare.
“Thank you,” I say as he leans in to kiss my cheek and his facial hair scores my skin. I bought yet another vintage dress—pale yellow lace—so that I’d be starting today without any old memories attached to me (apart from those I’m subliminally absorbing from its previous owners). You’d think I’d be bothered by wearing secondhand clothes, but—contrarily—I find it strangely comforting. “So do you.”
“Excellent.” Will laughs and twirls in a bizarrely hot way. “Disarmingly beautiful is the look I was going for this morning. I toyed with endearingly ravishing, but sadly that particular shirt was in the wash.”
I laugh, enjoying myself already. “Combined with your beguilingly pretty trousers, I see.”
“Naturally.” He flourishes. “What else, for our second date?”
We both beam at each other and I feel a turquoise-colored sweetness ripple down the back of my neck.
“So what’s the plan?” Will stares around King’s Cross train station, then stretches with his fingers spread out wide like a cat in the sun. “I’m feeling full of beans today, Cassie. I’m actually glad we didn’t do brunch yesterday, because I was so tired after editing all week I stayed in bed for most of it, eating pizza out of a box balanced delicately on my chest.”
I smile and try to ignore a cold flicker of horror at all those spiky crumbs lost in the crevices of his duvet cover.
“Actually—” I reach into my bag “—the plan is right here.”
Triumphantly, I hold out an A4 piece of paper printed on both sides with bullet-pointed suggestions, all approaching “fun” from a variety of angles. There’s the physical activity kind of fun, the silly kind of fun, the eating kind of fun, the alcohol kind of fun, the mentally challenging kind of fun. We may not have time for all of it, but I’ve put it all in the most convenient order, just in case.
There’s even space in the itinerary for the impromptu kind of fun—I know how much Will enjoys that—but I don’t think we’ll get round to it. Honestly, there’s just no real way of knowing how long spontaneity will take.
“Blimey,” Will says, taking it out of my hands. “Cassandra, this is really something.”
I study his face carefully. “Something...good?”
“Oh, yes.” He grins widely. “I’ve never been on a date before with someone who has thought it all out so carefully ahead of time. I’m really touched. No last-minute-panic cinema for us.”