Bolting across the intersection, Tiffany found herself at the front of the restaurant, watching incredulously as the orange sports car parked in the back lot. The maître d’ waved at her, spreading the fingers wide. “Hello? Miss?” he asked, giving her a playful smile. “Are you there?”

“Oh. Um. Yes, sorry,” Tiffany said, her eyes still on the Sheikh. He leapt from the driver’s seat and strode quickly to the passenger side, opening the door to reveal a gorgeous woman, all legs and long dark hair. Beside them, another two sports cars pulled into spots, with similarly well-dressed men and women joining them. They seemed like a gang, each of them smirking, the weight of their finances off their shoulders.

“My friend should already be here,” Tiffany said, feeling her cheeks sag with disappointment. Did this mean they would be coming into the restaurant, all together? She felt her temper begin to grow, making her heart beat against her ribcage. God, she wanted to turn her heels toward the door, push her finger into his chest, and tell him just what she thought of him. That he was an arrogant, self-serving asshole; that he was going to be the ruler of the entire country someday, so why on earth didn’t he act like it?

“Girl. I’m over here.” Zarina’s words penetrated the air around her.

Blinking wildly, Tiffany found her friend: tall and lanky, with black hair falling in coils down her back. Zarina wrapped herself around Tiffany, hugging her tight, and whispering, “I could almost hear all the vicious things you were thinking about that man,” she laughed. “Loud and clear.”

“You know how I feel about all of it,” Tiffany sighed, sitting across from her. “It’s no use dwelling.”

“Do you want to change restaurants?” Zarina laughed, after a pause. “Come on, girl. Just look at the menu. This place is going to be the bomb.”

The Sheikh’s group entered the restaurant, rowdy and wild, and seated themselves at a long table near the bar. With a snap of his fingers, the Sheikh ordered a round of shots for the group, along with cocktails. The bartender busied himself, pouring Russian vodka, his movements deliberate and firm. The Sheikh began to tell a story about his previous party—a story, Tiffany was sure—they’d all heard before. But no matter: his friends still laughed at the right moments, playing the game he’d set forth for them.

“Let me just pick a drink for you,” Zarina laughed, grabbing the menu. “I know you’re going to keep obsessing over them, but I’m thirsty.”

“Let me just go to the bathroom and—um—collect myself,” Tiffany sighed, rising up. “And I’ll have a gin and tonic. I can multitask. I can be annoyed with them, and read the menu at the same time. Pretty impressive, huh?”

Tiffany stormed towards the bathroom, diving toward the sink and splashing water on her hot cheeks. Her frustration was making her blood boil. She wasn’t sure what it was that made her so angry. So, the Sheikh was a wild party animal. Why did that bother her so much?

She wondered if it was because her father was so intimately tied to the country. As the United States ambassador, he treasured his time in the Middle East, spoke highly of its people and its position in the world. All while people like the Sheikh—given everything since birth—seemed to belittle it, make it seem cartoonish and ridiculous.

Giving herself a stern look in the mirror, Tiffany turned from the sink and made her way back to her table, determined having a good time. But as she passed the Sheikh’s table, her eyes on Zarina, she heard the Sheikh speak.

“Hey. There she is. Waitress! Hey. You there, pretty girl with the brown hair. Come here!”

Suddenly enraged, Tiffany whipped around. Anger shimmered through her arms, her legs, and her heart. Her eyes flashed. She now faced the Sheikh who was, indeed, speaking in her direction. He beckoned her toward the table, making an aside joke, “What’s her problem? It’s clear we’re out of drinks.”

“What?” Tiffany blurted, glaring down at him. His handsome face was wide-set, with high cheekbones; a dark five o’clock shadow carved his jawline. His hair was long, but handled well, making him look gruff and animalistic, handsome in a destructive and fiery way.

“We’re going to need another round of drinks,” he said, his voice playful and light. “If you aren’t too busy, that is.” He turned his eyes back to his friends at the table, tipping the last of his drink down his horrible throat. His arrogance bled through the room.

Tiffany didn’t know what to do. She felt her pulse in her ears. Her lips twitched, wanting to blurt out the worst of her opinions.

“I’m sorry?” she said, speaking in a high-pitched voice. “What was that?”

After a brief pause, the Sheikh turned back to her. He coughed once, realizing that his normal waitress was actually still poised behind the bar, stocking liquor. He stretched his face into a smile, sliding his tongue across his teeth in an almost menacing way.

“Oh. I see,” he said, clearly flirting with her now. “I do apologize, Miss. When we get thirsty, we get a bit rowdy.”

“It’s to be expected, sir,” Tiffany said, her nostrils flared. Was that really the most snarky thing she could think of? “Enjoy your night.”

But the Sheikh wasn’t going to let her off the hook so easily. Bringing his hand forward, he gripped her wrist tightly.

“Don’t run away so soon!” he said, still grinning that horribly attractive grin. “We’ve only just begun.”

Several of his friends had begun to titter, their eyes filled with questions. Why wouldn’t he just let the “nobody” go?

“I have to get back to my friend,” Tiffany said, pointing toward Zarina. She was captivated in this moment, both a prisoner who wanted to be free, and a woman who couldn’t look away from his deep, impenetrable eyes.

“Your friend can wait,” the Sheikh said, his nostrils flared. “Sit down. I’ll buy you a drink, if you tell me your name.”

“It doesn’t seem like a good trade,” Tiffany said, her eyes flashing as she pulled her wrist sharply out of his grip.

“You have nothing to lose here,” he said, scoffing. “Why won’t you just sit?”

“Because,” Tiffany said, finally feeling the perfect answer on her tongue. “I’m not irresistible to your charms. That’s why.”

“I beg to differ,” the Sheikh said, cackling. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“I’m being polite. Or is that something else that’s lost on you?” Tiffany retorted, feeling her tongue flail with anger.

“I suppose so. Because you look like a woman who would much rather date me than fight with me,” the Sheikh said. “And believe me. I could get you to go out with me eventually. Just another five, or six minutes of you standing at this table, I could have you on your knees—begging me to take you out.” His smile was smooth and confident.

“Ha!” Tiffany scoffed, tossing her head back. Her heart hammered in her chest, making her feel wild. Turning on her heel, she strode back towards Zarina and her gin and tonic. After a brief pause, she called over her shoulder; “I’d never go out with you in a million years, Sheikh Kazra. The world would be a better place if more people told you ‘no.’”

Once she took her seat, Tiffany felt herself quivering with fear. She fanned herself, drinking half of her gin and tonic in a single gulp. As she swiped the back of her hand over her mouth, she heard the actual waitress approach the Sheikh’s table. The waitress fell into a fit of giggles, as a result of his charms. What was wrong with her? Why was she so combative?

Zarina gazed at her with saucer-like eyes. When Tiffany placed her drink back on the table, she said, “So. That went well.”

“Spare me,” Tiffany whispered, shaking her head sadly. “I did the best I could.”

“You really wouldn’t go out with him if he asked you?” Zarina asked, her eyes flickering, as if she recognized another truth. “I mean. Just for the story?”

“I don’t live my life for the story, Zarina,” Tiffany said, eyeing the food menu before her. “Some of us have morals. Like my father. And like the Sheikh’s father. Unfortunately, old Kazra can’t live up to them.”

“Suit yourself,” Zarina sighed.

* * *

The evening went on as expected. The Sheikh and his friends trashed their table, jolting it with laughter until finally abandoning the restaurant after their umpteenth round of shots and drinks. Tiffany watched with sad eyes as the waitress mopped the top of the wooden table with a towel. It was up to the rest of them—the non-royals—to pick up the pieces when people like the Sheikh left.

“That’s when he dropped me off,” Zarina continued, finishing a story about her recent date. “He told me he didn’t want anything serious, and that for him, settling down meant social suicide. He dropped me off at the door, not even a kiss goodbye. And that was after all we’d done the week before…” She trailed off, gazing at Tiffany with large, sad eyes.

“That’s bad luck,” Tiffany said, drinking the last of her cocktail. “Why was he even on the dating app if he didn’t want anything serious?”

“I think, sometimes, men just want whatever they can get, right away,” Zarina said. “And since I gave him that…”

“Jeez, what a jerk,” Tiffany exclaimed, remembering a chat she’d had with her mother, years before, when she’d been warned not to let boys touch her, lest they identify her as “easy.” Tiffany and her mother no longer spoke very often.

The girls cleaned their plates and sipped the last of their cocktails before stepping into the wild Friday night. On all sides, 20-somethings cackled, blasting down the street from one club or bar to the next. Zarina exhaled loudly, wringing her hands. “Do you think we’re wasting our youth?” she asked.

“Because we don’t go clubbing, like the Sheikh?” Tiffany laughed. “No way, Zarina.” But as she spoke, her heart tweaked slightly. The girls would part ways in mere minutes, heading off to their lonely apartments. Perhaps they shouldn’t have given up on living together so soon. Perhaps they should have stayed together for those long nights, laughing over magazines and silly television shows. If only to quell the sting of loneliness.

“All right,” Zarina sighed, rolling her eyes. “I know better. I do.”

The girls clung to each other in a firm hug, and then parted. They each lived just a few blocks away, in opposite directions. Tiffany’s shoulders shivered slightly as she walked along, feeling the crispness of the desert night air. Several couples passed her, holding hands, seeming to snub her single status.

Once inside, Tiffany removed her dress carefully, hanging it back on a hanger and shoving a large T-shirt over her head in its place. Falling onto her couch, she reached for a stack of business papers she’d need to go over by the next Tuesday. As she leafed, she turned on the television to the tabloid station—wanting nothing more than to fill her head with garbage before she went to sleep.

Immediately, the TV flashed with an image of the Sheikh himself, and Tiffany nearly dropped the pile of papers. Mid-interview, the Sheikh was speaking about the “unfortunate events” that occurred recently at his penthouse. After a pause, during which the station played jangling, cheesy music, the reporter dove into the “story.”

Apparently, the Sheikh had held a blasphemous party over the previous weekend, inviting his common core of celebrities and models. Unfortunately, this time, the party had bled out onto the streets and into other apartments in the high-rise building he lived in, making it difficult for the cops to close it down when things got too rowdy. As a result, the party had continued well into the early morning, disrupting the order of the city and forcing a large fine on the Sheikh himself. Tiffany couldn’t help but note that he seemed to smirk when he spoke, as if this “fine” was really a small cost for wreaking such havoc.

“You can imagine,” the journalist was saying, her eyes penetrating and dark in the camera. “If you’re a young woman, the Sheikh’s charms are borderline irresistible. And if you’re living in this city, the nightlife is just a part of who you are. With the Sheikh beckoning from his lavish tower, who can avoid him?”

Tiffany’s nostrils flared. Jabbing her finger on the power button, she brought silence back to the room. Going to bed at 10:30 pm at 24 years old? Her shoulders slumped as she eased toward the bedroom, remembering Zarina’s sad eyes, and her lamentation about whether they were really living their lives. Was there any right way? Weren’t her career and her health the very core of her life?

Frustrated, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber. The next morning would be a time for exercise, for deep-cleaning her kitchen, for getting to the bottom of her emails.

Wasting time was just a foolish way to live. Nothing more.