On a bench, next to spilled coffee

He was seldom late. And it was not today.

6:34 PM. He did not check his watch when he arrived but if he did, that's what he would have seen. The short arm and the long arm both past 6 and the second hand ticking just a few seconds after 12.

The streets were so full of people it was overwhelming, especially for him who mostly stayed at home. They spared him quick glances, regarded his coat and black slick pants with disinterest. But no one accosted him. And for that he was glad. He did not know what to say if they ever did. He wished he had learned how to talk to people.

It was hard finding a good bench to sit on. By good bench he meant a bench with no people. He found one near a bush and the only reason no one sat there was the coffee someone spilled and did not bother wiping, and the stench of the pile of thrash in the corner. Well he sat there now.

He had a phone to keep him company. For the times he clicked it open, he always went straight to the Inbox and read the texts there even though he had read them countless times.

He hoped he had better games on his phone. Nothing seemed to interest him now. Maybe it was the impatience. He hoped he brought water. He was going a little bit thirsty. And the more he thought about it, the thirstier he got.

He started counting cars. It astounded him how many orange cars there were. He thought nobody bought orange cars. Well, he won't buy an orange car.

Then he started looking at people. He studied the way they walked and wondered if it meant anything. He took note of the way they looked at the ground and how they avoided his gaze. He tried to take note who were tired and who were happy. At some point he could not tell. They looked the same.

He pulled on his coat. It had crumpled again. He admired those who could smoothen out the ends of their sleeves. He could not.

He wondered if the smell of his perfume was still on him . Maybe it had faded. He sniffed his collar and found that he could not tell.

He adjusted his watch because he had almost nothing left to do. But he did not look at it. But if he did, he would have seen that the shortest hand was past seven and the minute hand long past six.

He wondered how waiting was seeming more difficult in each passing second, especially that she promised to come.