Expectation

Sitting and waiting for her arrival was nerve-wracking. He glanced at his watch yet again, wondering if he was too early or late for their date.

In front of him, a group of friends engaged in lively conversation.

To his right, two young women were engrossed in gossip.

Nearby, a couple was occupied with the task of feeding their children.

Behind him, a group of businessmen exchanged words in hushed tones.

He felt somewhat uneasy, perceiving himself as the focus of everyone's attention, a sensation he found quite unpleasant.

"Why is she so late?" he wondered. Had she forgotten their date? Perhaps it wasn't as significant to her as it was to him. This notion unsettled him, making each passing minute more embarrassing.

Last week, he had sat across from a beautiful girl with green eyes and blonde hair, not her natural brunette hinted at by her eyebrows. If she was hiding her true self, what could he do about his own insecurities? He was aware that his face wasn't conventionally attractive, and changing his hair color wouldn't alter that fact. Her dress was a distraction, hinting at possibilities if he played his cards right. He was dressed in what he believed every woman dreamed of—a man in professional attire, complete with a suit, vest, and tie. It felt more like a business meeting than a date. Was it too much? Possibly, but what were his alternatives? Despite the stress of his job, he wasn't overweight; he preferred running to stress eating, finding freedom in the escape it provided. He pondered if he could outrun his problems. His height was average, and he often mused why women preferred men over six feet tall. Did they see them as human ladders?

From that date, he gleaned a new insight: many women cherish their illusions, and those who challenge them with facts are seldom welcomed. They profess an aversion to dishonesty, yet their actions suggest otherwise. He recognized the folly of generalizing this behavior to all women, but what was his alternative? It was impractical to date every woman in the world to test this theory, so he accepted it as a lesson learned.

Gazing at the piano on stage, he felt a deep yearning. In moments of sorrow, the piano at home offered solace, speaking to him in a way nothing else could, soothing him with its gentle presence. How he wished to approach the stage and caress the keys, allowing his mind to quieten and his heart to sing through his fingers. In such times, the words trapped within often found release in song, a release he craved now more than ever.

To avoid an impulsive act, he checked his watch, only to find her another minute tardy.

Resisting the magnetic pull of the piano, he turned his attention to two women engaged in conversation. In a spur of recklessness, he approached and courteously inquired if he might join them until his date arrived. Surprised by such an unusual request, they agreed.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything significant," he remarked with a hint of embarrassment. They dismissed his concern with a gesture.

"Does she often keep you waiting?" inquired the red-haired woman, her appearance striking with matching lipstick and a form-fitting white dress.

"It's our first date," he replied, prompting a quizzical lift of her eyebrow.

"I guess punctuality isn't her strongest suit," said the other woman, her long, sleek black hair cascading down to her waist. It was so dark that it shimmered in the light like a waning crescent moon, its beauty apparent, and he imagined its softness from just a glance. Her eyes mirrored the stunning hue of the sky. Like her friend, she donned a form-fitting dress. Though slimmer than her companion, each held their own allure in his eyes, akin to comparing red and blue emeralds—both equally mesmerizing.

"She's probably caught in indecision over what to wear, with a closet brimming with dresses and shoes—just like in those rom-coms," he quipped, eliciting a knowing smile from them.

"Oh?" The redhead replied, her smile tinged with guile.

"Quite the judge, isn't he?" The woman with black hair chimed in, supporting her friend.

"You're out of order. Please respect the court," he jested, aiming to prolong their smiles, which grew wider.

"But is there any truth to it?" he inquired.

"What do you think?" asked the girl with red hair.

"I don't think so. Like many other misconceptions, this one is also incorrect. It portrays all men as dumb and incompetent, which is contradicted by the numerous discoveries and innovations," he replied, gauging their reaction, hoping they weren't influenced by media stereotypes.

"I don't know about that. Everyone I've dated was dumb and incompetent," the girl with black hair retorted, her smile a self-congratulatory gesture.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Remember, they prefer their own bubbles, he reminded himself, holding back from correcting her.

"Then, let's also toast to all the punctual women," he offered instead, eliciting laughter.

Perhaps they disregard facts for fun's sake, he mused. Should he feel disappointed, or simply play along?

"Any tips on what to do or not to do on my date?" he asked, eager to shift the conversation. Feeling like a coward, he pondered whether he should learn when to care and when not to. Arguing seemed pointless. The goal of an argument is to uncover the truth; if one party isn't interested in that, it's akin to speaking with a child who covers her ears and responds with nonsensical noises.

"Well, you look nice," said the woman with red hair.

"Just be yourself," the other remarked casually.

His disappointment returned; their advice wasn't helpful.

Should he heed their words? It felt akin to a lion seeking hunting tips from gazelles.

"You have kind eyes," said the woman with black hair.

"And a good attitude," added the redhead.

He suspected they didn't truly care about him; they seemed to be competing with each other.

"Thanks for the compliments, but I think a feedback loop approach would be more beneficial," he suggested, hoping to glean something useful, but they appeared confused. "Imagine I'm your date, and you tell me immediately if something I do is off-putting. That would be more constructive. After all, I'm just another clueless man," he joked, hoping for laughter. Their chuckles gave him his answer.

"Do you want to do it?" the redhead dared the brunette. Her friend responded with a nonchalant shrug.

"Okay, let's start over," he said, standing up. He circled the table, playfully asking if they were his dates so he could sit. They giggled like schoolgirls.

"Sorry for being a bit late. I couldn't decide what to wear. I was torn between this black suit and another," he explained calmly, flashing a charming smile. His playful demeanor brought smiles to their faces.

"Strike one; never keep a lady waiting," the brunette chided.

"Assuming she is a lady," her friend quipped, sharing a joke between them.

He dismissed the comment and signaled for a waiter. The waiter approached.

"Two glasses of milk for the ladies and a strong whiskey for me," he ordered. The waiter, maintaining professionalism, looked to the women for their orders. Yet, the two were visibly amused and delighted by his antics.

"Strike two: never belittle your date in front of others," the red-haired one remarked.

"Of course," he replied to her, then turned to the waiter, "and bring them cookies as well." It elicited laughter, and even the waiter couldn't suppress a smile this time.

Once they placed their actual orders, they all focused on him. The black-haired girl gazed at him with playful eyes and a smile.

"So, what do you do?" she inquired.

"I manage people. It earns enough to afford a house and a car."

"Any hobbies?"

"Besides making you laugh, I enjoy reading. I could read your favorite story to you. I also play the piano when time permits, and my shower singing is second to none," he replied, hoping for a smile, but she offered only an annoyed one.

"Strike three: know when to be humorous and when to be serious," she advised earnestly.

"Wasn't it you who told me to be myself?" he retorted, but before she could respond, he continued, "I resort to humor when I'm nervous. It's my way of coping—if no one else laughs, at least I can laugh at my own jokes, so I don't lose my sanity in this grave world." She nodded in understanding.

"I apologize. I meant no offense," she said softly.

"Strike four: never make a lady feel bad about herself," he quipped, earning a rueful smile from her.

"Did you just mention you play the piano? So, you chose this place to impress her with your playing," the red-haired woman interjected. She wore a smug expression, convinced she had unraveled his scheme, though she was far off the mark.

They were fond of their bubbles, he reminded himself, responding to her with a smile and a wink.

"Can you play something for us now?" the redhead inquired, her smile daring.

"Do you want me to be thrown out before my date even arrives?" he retorted. His response should have indicated his reluctance to show off, but as usual, it was quickly dismissed.

"We could ask," the brunette suggested, and without waiting for his response, she signaled for the waiter. The waiter approached, and upon her request, he explained that only his manager could make that decision. After consulting his manager, the waiter returned with permission for just one song.

The redhead and brunette looked at him expectantly, as if they had fulfilled their part, and now it was his turn.

"Are you certain?" he questioned the waiter, hoping for a revelation that it was all a jest, but the waiter's professionalism precluded such conduct. The waiter confirmed with a nod.

"Alright, then wish me luck," he declared, rising to take the stage. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the pair had already begun whispering to each other, not even waiting for him to start his performance.

The moment he sat behind the piano, all the worries in the world subsided for him. He was greeted by an old friend. That childhood friend of his was there all the time, even in his peculiar moments. He touched a key, and he was greeted by a soothing sound. The first key was followed by the second key. Now, every key on that piano was begging him to press them next. A harmonious note formed, like a chef adding the right amount of salt and spices to his food; he added his whistle to the notes. While he was doing that, he wondered if he should sing the song that he made last week after finding out that there won't be a second date. It wasn't about that date. It was about all the frustrations he had. He was heartbroken, and his sadness became a sad song. He didn't check to see if people liked his music, so he kept on going with that note and started singing.

Hate her? Love her?

I don't know what to do with her.

Doesn't she want this love?

My life is flying away

She passes me by

Like a cold breeze

Please wait for me

I am running like a child

Towards a fairyland

I would fly like a butterfly to the moon

I would swim like a fish to the net

If it means being with you

If you let me love you

I'll stay by your side

I'll die by your side

If you let me love you

I would fly like a bird

I would swim like a fish

Towards you

If you let me love you

The music ceased after a few notes.

Reluctantly, he rose from the piano. His desire was to play on, to lose himself in the melodies, yet he resolved to save that pleasure for his home.

The audience erupted in applause, moved by his performance, rising to their feet in ovation. Yet, the adulation held no significance for him; his only wish was to conclude the evening.

Approaching the women's table, he sought their consent, settled their bill, and departed.