I arrive at the restaurant a little early. I guess I am a little over-excited. I couldn’t stand waiting in my apartment any longer. I had gone through all of my clothes multiple times before deciding on my outfit and once I decided, I didn’t want to just sit and wait. So, now I am sitting and waiting in a cozy, softly lit French restaurant, waiting for Blake to arrive.

I’m still a little weirded out by that guy who came by the café. He obviously knows Blake. I mean, I’ve seen them together twice. But he had a very strange vibe. I have always made sure to listen to my instincts on things like that. I am surprised that Blake would be friends with a guy like that. But then again, I don’t really know Blake at all. I will have to talk to him when he comes.

But he hasn’t come, yet.

The waiter comes by to fill up my water again. I have gone through nearly the entire basket of bread. I’m trying not to look around the restaurant, aware that my solitude is starting to garner some sympathetic looks.

I check my phone again.

Nothing.

I texted him almost twenty minutes ago, but he has yet to even acknowledge it. I tell myself that I will wait ten more minutes and then I’m going home.

The minutes tick by and still there is no Blake. He stood me up.

I take my purse from off the chair back and look at my waiter, telling him with my eyes that I am giving up. He returns a nod and comes to clear the table of crumbs. I manage to keep my composure until I reach the street.

I can’t believe he didn’t show up. A man who paid so much money to spend the night with me can’t even be bothered to text me to tell me he isn’t coming to dinner? I am so torn between anger and sadness that I don’t know what to do. I feel like sobbing while slashing his tires.

Only I don’t know where he is.

It hits me that the guy who came into the café today was right. Blake wasn’t a decent or reliable guy, after all. The connection I felt with him must have just been a product of one crazy night, a night where everything was a long way from normal. Why should I trust anything that happened, anything that I felt in such a bizarre environment?

I open the Lyft app and order a car to pick me up. Five minutes away. I wait here on the curb in front of a romantic restaurant for a stranger to come pick me up and take me home. This is not the way I imagined this night would go.

As I stand here watching the car coming ever closer on my phone, I decide that I am not content with letting this night end in such a depressing manner. I send a text to Hannah, telling her to meet me at my apartment with a few bottles of wine. I feel bad not inviting April over, but Hannah is the only person in my world who knows the situation. I want to keep it that way.

By the time Hannah arrives, I have already popped open one bottle and I’m a glass and a half in. I realize I never asked her how her night at the auction went. I guess I was so wrapped up in my own issues that I didn’t even think about her. She gives a perfunctory answer, deflecting. I don’t think she is uncomfortable; she seems more concerned with how I am doing.

“So, he didn’t give you any explanation, didn’t text, or call at all?”

“No, I was just sitting there like an idiot.”

Hannah purses her lips, contemplating for a moment.

“And you are sure you were at the right restaurant?”

I return a withering glance.

“They had our reservation. He just didn’t show up.”

We sit with our legs entwined, each leaning against one side. Hannah listens sympathetically to all of my complaining. She doesn’t offer advice or suggest ways I can improve my situation; she just listens. That is exactly what I need right now.

“What I can’t get through my head is how he could pay so much money to be with me one night, and then not even return my text the next. I mean, he was clearly attracted to me. We had really great sex. Not just for me, it was objectively great sex. If there had been judges, it would have scored tens across the board.”

“Can you think of anything that happened afterward? Anything that might give a clue?”

“No!” I say, a little too heated. The wine is making me loose, demonstrative. My voice has gone up in volume with every glass we’ve downed. “He asked me out, he texted me the reservation. Everything was fine!”

Hannah doesn’t offer a response. I continue.

“Screw him. It was probably a bad idea to see him again anyway.” My confidence starts to grow with my volume. “You know, I just want to leave that whole thing behind me. It was great, I’m glad I did it, but that’s it. I will just move on and forget it ever happened. Forget that he…”

My voice falters. Hannah leans forward and wraps me in a big hug. I start to cry lightly on her shoulder. Why did I drink so much wine?

I slept fitfully. I woke up a few times to relieve the pressure in my bladder. By the time I was up for good, I was filled with regret and a splitting headache. I forgot to drink water. I’ve been out of college for a while and I guess I’m out of practice in preventing the worst of a hangover. Thankfully, I don’t have to be at Anchor until the afternoon.

I stumble out of bed and grab a bottled water off the counter. I pop some Advil and wash them down with half the bottle.

Like most ‘morning afters’, I spend most of the morning trying to understand why I allowed myself to get so drunk last night. It seemed like a great decision at the time, but present pleasures have a habit of extracting future payments. And man, I am paying dearly.

I keep the curtains pulled and avoid turning on any lights that I don’t absolutely need to. The harsh, cold light of the refrigerator is stabbingly bright when I venture in to grab a jar of peanut butter. Then I return to bed and put on a podcast, at low volume, and close my eyes.

I must have fallen asleep, because the light sneaking into my room has shifted. The podcast has ended. I think I listened to the first ten minutes before I dropped off.

I hear a knock at my door. I’m not expecting anyone and I’m not in a mood to see anyone, so I ignore it. Whoever is there knocks again, a little louder this time. Still I lie here, unmoving. They don’t knock again, so I set my alarm and go back to sleep.

Finally, I can put off getting ready for work no longer, so I take a long, hot shower and get dressed. The headache has subsided for the most part, but my muscles are still sore.

I look at my phone. I’ve been waiting around for so long that now I’m almost late. I open the door and almost trip over a bouquet of flowers. Gorgeous, deep red roses. I pull the note from the side. It reads “Sorry about last night, Blake.”