19:15: She was experiencing trouble with her car. It died somehow. Crying with frustration at her lack of tolerance, she grabbed her purse and hurried along the sidewalk. Fourteen blocks, just around the corner. Late.
19:20: He finally got in his car, turned the key, and backed out of his driveway. Along with the remnants left by a sudden yet fleeting storm, a cleaning crew cut off his usual route. Annoyance hung tethered to the immense travesty to his chosen spontaneity. He almost burst before making a screaming U-turn. Late.
19:20: She rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. The street lamps did not aid much in her fruitless search; the purse stayed dark, and her cell phone stayed behind.
19:30: He fished out the cell phone he keeps in his glove compartment, and dialed the number that might just save his life. As irony would have it, he almost drove into a lamppost. He yanked at the steering wheel just in time to swerve back into sanity, the phone still ringing in his ear. A feeling that something terrible should have happened washed over him.
19:30: Her cell phone rang within her purse, the melody faint yet audible. She stopped to look for it but the junk inside prevented her from even seeing the LCD backlighting. An abrupt feeling that something terrible should have happened washed over her.
19:35: He drove through a puddle of rainwater just as he dropped his phone onto the passenger seat. He cursed. Five minutes late.
19:35: The phone went silent just as an idiot drove through a puddle and soaked her to the bone. She screamed.
19:40: He arrived at the restaurant, faintly nervous of both being late and meeting the mystery woman.
19:40: She stomped into the restaurant feeling and probably looking like something out of a horror film. Just having embedded both her stilettos deep within the tail lights of the car responsible for the soak, she called for the owner of the vehicle, as furious as a woman scorned.
He looked at the crazy person as she described his car from across the room, and saw the beauty behind her apparent anger; realized a sudden recognition. He got up from the table, allowed his heart to carry him to her, where he laid a hand on her trembling cheek and whispered; “You look terrible. I think I’m in love with you.”
She watched his approach, her anger diminishing with every step he took. Of all the men in the world, he had to be the one. Her heart raced as he placed his hand on her cheek and whispered those horrible, horrible words. She answered euphorically, “You’re an asshole. Kiss me.”
Outside, holding an umbrella in one hand and spark plugs in the other, an old man smiled at the good he has done as he watched the two children share a passionate, sealing kiss. His smile faded only slightly as he recalled the dream he had about the swerve, the collision. Their end. He laughed, turned away and headed home, whistling like a small boy just having succeeded in pinching a cookie from the tray his mother has denied him.