I’m here, bang on time.
I’m keeping my composure, though. I’ve ordered myself a skinny flat white, found the cleanest seat I could, and have decided that this has worked out well for me. Yes. I haven’t had some me time in a while. I deserve it. I run a successful company. I don’t have time for childish games. If a man asks me to go out for a coffee with him, and I say, “fine”, I expect him to meet me on time. He doesn’t deserve me. A young waiter with a peculiarly shaped nose, too many freckles, and blushed cheeks strides over to me.
“What do you want?” I ask as he stares at me.
“Um, are you Mrs Preston?”
“Ms,” I correct him, raising my eyebrows.
“Yes, um, of course. Sorry.”
“Spit it out.”
“Kevin Peters is on the phone. He said you would be waiting for him.”
“I am not waiting for anyone.”
“He asked me to pass on a message. He said that he is very sorry, but he was in a car accident and is suffering from severe injuries.” He turns and walks away.