By Gabrielle N. Rippel for Vocal Media writing contest April 2021

A first date is a first step in a new direction, whether or not I’m ready for it is an entirely different matter. I realize this as the crosswalk signal prompts me to continue. I wonder if it’s too late to cancel, but I already know it is considering the reservation begins in less than five minutes. I find the strength to cross the paused traffic and emerge on the other side unscathed. I’d like to say I was able to cross the intersection due to some newfound courage, but I know it’s due to ever present ache in my feet desperate for reprieve.

These shoes were a ridiculous choice. I never should have worn them…I silently curse myself catching a glimpse of their shiny patent leather glistening in the sun, but then I remember why I chose them to begin with. These red beauties were my dating good luck charm back then and I need all the help I can get now—never mind their ostentatious appearance.

Just outside the restaurant I take a final pause hoping to calm the flutter of my heart. The harder I try to lessen my anxiety the more apprehensive I feel, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t even know how I talked myself into doing this but the memory of my conversation with Katrina a few days prior pops into my mind.

“You know I just want you to be happy. I think you should go, make sure to wear something you feel confident in. Uncertainty be damned, fake it ’til you make it sis.” I hate it when she’s right.

When I got ready for this date I knew this outfit would seem out of place for the time of day but I needed it to work its magic and give me the extra boost of confidence I desperately needed. I fretfully tug at the hem of my formfitting black dress which hovers just below mid-thigh, the satin material feels sleek beneath my clammy palms. I quickly check for any unwanted sweaty hand prints that may be on the nearly reflective material. I know I’m nervous, but I don’t need any visible traces giving me away.

As a last ditch effort to appear composed, I reach in my handbag for a tube of subtle pink lipstick to refresh my look. Instead my hand finds its way to a familiar gold vile. Its unassuming nature silently present despite the fact that it’s no bigger than a tube of lipstick or a small jar nail polish. I find myself removing the vile from my bag and turn its ridged outline over in my hand catching each memorized groove. I can’t help but stare as the sunlight bounces off of its surface, examining it closely as if this vile would provide me with an answer to an unspoken question, knowing the response never comes.

Eventually the sound an incoming text message breaks me out of my trance and I place the gold vile back into its secure location within my bag. I dig my phone out to see a message from Katrina:

I’m so proud of you for doing this! Remember, you’re a goddess. You got this.

I smile at the screen reading her words of encouragement. Before I can talk myself out of this altogether I clutch my handbag for comfort allowing the click clack of my heels carry me into Une Fois de Plus—a quaint restaurant known for its champagne and modern twists of classic French cuisine. I still can’t believe I talked myself into going here for a first date, knowing how difficult it will be to be for a second date to follow after this highly acclaimed spot. I feel a delicate smile spread across my face, amused at the idea of that challenge. “At least you can’t say you didn’t try.” I tell myself as I decisively enter the restaurant.

“Welcome to Une Fois de Plus,” an overly perky hostess greets me with a practiced French accent, “do you have a reservation?”

“Oh! Yes,” I pull up the messages on my phone as if the memorized name on the reservation could have somehow miraculously changed since I last looked at it.

“The reservation is under the name…Atticus?” The answer came out as a question and I’m unable to hide the look of discomfort at the sound of saying his name out loud.

“That’s a first.” She glances down at her kiosk reservation system trying to locate the name in question. I look around the nearly empty restaurant, unsure of what—or who—I’ll find, but given the awkward 3:30 afternoon time slot there isn’t much to be seen.

“Ah, there it is, Atticus party of two.” She grabs a pair of menus before emerging from behind her post. “Looks like you’re the first to arrive. If you’ll follow me I’ll take you to your table.” She extends her arm and I obediently trail behind, hyperaware of the sound my heels make as they echo through the sea of empty tables.

“Here you go,” the hostess pauses at a preset table exposed in the middle of the room and begins to delicately place the pair of menus on each place setting.

“Actually, I’m sorry I’d rather not have this date on display—would it be possible to sit over there?” I point to a small table in the corner of the room next to a large window on the side of the restaurant.

“Not a problem. It’s not like there isn’t an abundance of options, it’s even too early for the senior citizen crowd.” I hear a slight cut in her voice as she retraces her steps and leads me to the requested secluded table.

“Here you go.” She carelessly places the menus in the center of the table, “when the second half of your party arrives I’ll send them your way.” The hostess turns on her heel and disappears across the restaurant.

“Thank you,” I say meekly as I awkwardly sit with my handbag placed in my lap, unsure of how or where to properly place it.

I relocate the pair of menus, carefully placing one on the plate across from me, imaging that space being filled by my date. I bury my nose in my menu twirling a loose a stand of my hair unsure of how many minutes passed since I was seated. I try my best to appear delightfully occupied instead of watching the clock dreading each minute that passes. I can sense the staff creating busy work impatiently waiting for the next member of my party to arrive, or for another customer entirely.

“Um, good afternoon,” I hear the voice of a man above me. I snap my eyes upward expectantly only to see the waiter in front of me.

“Oh, good afternoon,” I say half-heartedly.

“Welcome to Une Fois de Plus” he lays on the thick French accent to emphasize the name just as the hostess had upon my arrival.

“I see we are waiting for one more.” He pauses before continuing, “May I interest you in a drink while we wait?” He offers.

We, he says, as if he’s the one sitting here waiting for a date instead of me. I glance at the messages in my phone pretending to search for the drink order I committed to memory while counting each passing minute as I waited.

“Yes, I’ll have a glass of the Moët & Chandon Imperial champagne and my date will a glass of the Mojave merlot, thanks so much.”

“Are you sure you want the Moët? I’d be happy to make a recommendation in a lower price range.”

“Well…” I hesitate even though this champagne was the one thing I was looking forward to this entire date. “No, the Moët is perfectly fine thank you.” I finally state with resolute.

“Of course.” He gives a quick nod before disappearing to the bar. I plan to use my phone as a distraction but in no time at all the waiter reemerges with my coupe of bubbly. It takes me a moment to realize my date’s drink is nowhere to be found.

“Where is the merlot?” I ask with visible confusion.

“I just figured I would bring it out upon your date’s arrival.” He looks around the empty restaurant not meeting me eye.

“Bring the merlot.” I cut him off annoyed as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I am aware that I’ve been seated alone for nearly 20 minutes, but there’s no need to call attention to that sir.” I surprise myself with speaking my mind.

“Right away ma’am.” Pink rises to his cheeks as he goes back to the bar and fumbles to open the bottle of Mojave merlot. I watch him as he pours the ruby red liquid into a stemmed wine glass, eyeing his approach when he diligently places the glass opposite mine at the empty place setting.

“I’ll check on you soon, please enjoy.” He gives a slight bow of the head as a means of apology.

“Wait—“ I call after him. “Is there a pen I could borrow?” He pulls one out of his uniform and hands it over to me without another word.

With the waiter gone I continue to sit in silence, staring at the glass of merlot mocking me from its place across the table begging to be drunk. I make note of the time on my phone—3:47pm. I bite my bottom lip knowing that I can’t put this off any longer. I finally close the menu I’ve been hiding behind letting out a sigh as I dig through the handbag in my lap, retrieving the familiar gold vile once more.

I take great care to place the vile next to the glass of merlot before recoiling my hand knowing the limited steps I have left. I can already feel the stares of the staff prompting a noticeable shift in the energy around me. I try my best to push their presence out of my mind as I focus on the small but significant gold object in front of me—casting reflective confetti on the linens in the afternoon sun.

Reluctantly I extract the final items from my handbag; a pair of matching gold bands, a well-worn folded sheet of paper, and a small framed photo of a young man beaming at the camera, his clear blue eyes smiling back at me. I place the photo and the matching wedding bands in their proper place next to the vile behind the glass of his favorite merlot. I carefully unfold the sheet of paper to cross off the final item on my checklist: a proper goodbye.

“Here’s to the last glass of merlot, Atticus,” I raise my champagne coupe and gently clink it against his stationary glass of merlot. I close my eyes and prepare to say the words I’ve been too scared to say knowing it will prompt me forward, ready or not.

“And here’s to my first date without you, my love.”