Another date come and gone, and as he enters his apartment, bends to pet his dog hello, and undresses, the hope of a second plays over in his mind but with different locations and dialogue. Anticipation builds with every new message sent, call answered, picture sent. A second date is set, the countdown winds towards the hour.
The day of, a heartbreaker of news causes his chest to swell: I can’t make it. Attempts to reschedule become fruitless, the thought of it being his fault somewhere down the line fills him with dread.
He sits at his laptop, the cursor blinking, begging to be used. A deep breath and suddenly ten pages are being saved. The writer’s block is gone. Perhaps, he says to himself, I’m supposed to be alone and only know the savory taste of a bite and not the entire entrée.