In Preparation For

She didn’t really like sushi but still agreed to the Japanese restaurant he suggested, infamous for their handrolls and fresh “catch-of-the-day” sashimi. It didn’t seem worth it for her to make a fuss over their taste in favored cuisine when she hadn’t even met the guy yet. On Sunday, they planned for the date to take place Thursday night at 7 PM. She thought this was a smart time; it gave her something to look forward to during the work week, but not on a weekend, where she couldn’t use the excuse of having to go into the office the next morning to avoid spending time with him after the dinner ended. But as the week began, she quickly realized her mistake. All week, leading up to Thursday night, she felt as if there was a rock sitting at the bottom of her stomach.

She couldn’t focus on her work, even accidentally replying to an email meant for her pharmacist about picking up a prescription to her boss. That one needed an in-person meeting for an explanation. She couldn’t stop obsessing over what she was going to wear. Definitely nothing white – soy sauce splatters and stains. She couldn’t even finish a full meal. Every time her appetite came back, she was reminded of the impending dinner, and the anxiety nausea returned. She wasn’t entirely complaining though; her jeans fit her a lot better now.

Throughout the week, whenever she was absentmindedly scrolling on her phone, she always wound up staring at his profile. Yes, he’s cute, she thought to herself. I do like his hair. And he’s tall, that’s a plus. It was like she was trying to convince herself that she was attracted to her, reminding herself that they had a couple of good chats and he couldn’t be the worst person in the world if he decided to match with her. At least, that’s what she told herself.

When Thursday rolled around, she had no trouble getting out of bed in the morning. The pre-date jitters were already running rampant in her system, not allowing her to stay still for minutes at a time. Luckily, she got through her workday without any huge fuckups despite not really getting anything done that she was supposed to. At 4:30 PM, she began to get ready. Her makeup routine was quite simple. Mascara, some concealer, and a little bit of gloss. Growing up, she never found interest in makeup or its application, which she never really minded because it meant she saved money on unnecessary palettes and grew confident in the way she looked with a naked face. Her outfit was also nothing out of the ordinary; she wanted to stay true to herself and couldn’t really bring herself to put on something extravagant. She also really just wanted to be comfortable. Baggy dark wash jeans and a black sweater with a white tee underneath finished with a pair of red ballet flats. That was her go-to outfit, letting the jewelry do most of the heavy lifting: a stack of gold necklaces, gold hoops filling her three ear piercings, and silver and gold rings occupying her fingers.

By 5:30 PM, she was ready to go. She always did this—allot more time than necessary to get ready, leaving her with an hour to kill before she had to actually head out the door. For the next thirty minutes, she paced around her apartment, taking sips of the red wine in an attempt to get some liquid courage in her. She checked, and re-checked her hair and makeup in the bathroom mirror every five minutes, as if the air in the kitchen would do irreparable damage to the effort she put in. At 6 PM, she left the sanctity of her home and headed towards the bus stop. The commute to the restaurant was only supposed to take a half hour, fifty minutes if there was heavy traffic, but she couldn’t wait any longer.

On the bus, her book lay open in her lap, an unsuccessful tactic to distract herself from the dinner. She found herself rereading the same paragraph repeatedly, never actually absorbing the content of the text. Her mind raced with thoughts, mostly questions she could ask him since there was bound to be a lull in conversation. Nothing about his job or hobbies; they were definitely going to cover those during the awkward small talk portion at the beginning of the night. She didn’t have any go-to moves; she liked to riff off of whatever it was they were talking about, hopefully creating some playful banter that allowed her to express her sense of humor without taking away from her intellect. It didn’t always work, though. It was a push-and-pull effort. If the other person didn’t match her pace, the conversation would always fall flat, and that was her worst fear.

There was mild traffic, which worked in her favor. By the time she got off the bus and walked to the restaurant, she was only fifteen minutes early. She could work with fifteen minutes, and hopefully, he had some sense of punctuality and would show up a bit early as well. A handful of people milled around the entrance of the restaurant, and she thanked her past self for making a reservation ahead of time. A first date was already anxiety-inducing in itself; she didn’t need the added bonus of having to switch plans and search for a vacant table at a different restaurant at the last minute. She decided to wait outside the restaurant, the nerves building up in her body already making her sweat a little. She wanted to enjoy the cool October air as long as she could. Leaning against an open space along the wall, she opened her book again, not in an attempt to read because she knew there was no way she would be able to productively consume anything, but in the hopes of giving off a good first impression to her date when he showed up.

Ten minutes slowly ticked by before she felt someone idle up in front of her.

“Hi, there.”