The Between Years

He kept a Kurt Vonnegut novel tucked under his arm as he strolled inside and paused at the door. With any luck, Carol would be inside waiting for him, but the shop only boasted a few older couples chatting, and a few university-aged kids typing away at laptops.

    So much for re-starting perfectly, he thought, but he told himself not to be negative so soon. That kind of paranoia could ruin everything before it even began. She had never been as timely-or an early bird-as he was in the first place. She was probably enjoying a leisurely supper at home, the same kind he'd enjoyed with her up until a week ago. Again, he told himself to let it go.

    At the counter, the two-person line seemed to take forever to clear, and Randy stuffed his hands in his pockets to quell his growing frustration. But he wasn't mad at the girl behind the counter: he decided that his tension was getting the best of him. He ordered a hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and sat at the table near the wall. Sitting there made him feel like he'd stood out like a sore thumb, which in turn would also made him look like some sort of pathetic loner. But then, if he sat in the booths by the windows, he would feel like he was having his conversation with Carol inside of a fishbowl.

    He sipped his hot chocolate, and opened his book, but he found the task of concentrating on the words and lines to be impossible. Normally, he could have soaked himself into a book, and Carol would have arrived and he wouldn't have even known it, but he'd lost all of his ability to concentrate. He tried to relieve his anxiety by taking several deep, slow breaths, but the tension refused to fade.

    When he checked his watch, he sat that hands had reached to exactly 8:00. Then he glanced over his shoulder to see if Carol was coming, and hoped people didn't think he was staring at them. Each time someone passed, he thought it would be her-and jumped-only to be disappointed.

    Next, his watch read 8:15 and then 8:30. Certainly there must be some logical explanation for this, he told himself. Her car could have broken down over the short drive to the coffee shop. An emergency could have come up. Having forgotten about their date still seemed like a long shot, but was possible. But she couldn't be simply blowing him off, not after she had sought out reconciliation with him first, he figured. Not unless she'd lost her nerve.

    Sitting all by himself, he'd never felt so self conscious nor so alone in the world. This was something he had created himself, he decided, but he wouldn't give in entirely. He was there and he was willing to work thing out, which must be worth something. Why was she jerking his chain like this?

    Instead of sitting around and looking stupid, he fished his Blackberry from his pocket and dialled home. First, he felt tentative in dialing the number, but he finally worked up the nerve to hit send. The sound of the phone ringing grinded him like a rusty razor. Pick up dammit! He thought. Finally, their voicemail picked up but he didn't have the nerve to leave a message.

    Then he switched the phone off and tucked it back into his pocket. He checked his watch again and saw that it was nearing 9:00. He covered his face with his hands and didn't give a damn what anyone thought of him. What have I done to deserve this? He wondered.

    He decided that this must have been the way Carol had felt on the night he'd walked out on her, as she must have sat and wondered if her husband would ever come back. Then there was the rotten feeling that must have followed her throughout the days he'd been away from her and most certainly on the night he'd hung up on her.

    When he felt a hand tap him on the shoulder, he removed his hands and glanced up. One of the counter girls stood above him, smiling.

    “ We're getting ready to close,” she said.

    “ Oh? I'm sorry, I must have completely lost track of time.”

    And he had lost track of time. How long had he sat in that shop with his hands over his face? He wondered. At the very least, it kept the time from dragging on, but it did end in an inevitable and unpleasant conclusion.

    “ We're not trying to rush you out the door or anything.”

    “ No worries, I'll just head on my way,” Randy said.

    He checked the dregs of hot chocolate mixed with a swirl of melted whipped cream in the center, raised the cup to his lips, and then decided against it. On the way out, he chucked the cup in the garbage, which struck the rim and