We planned to meet for breakfast, at Denny’s on Wilshire and Vermont at 7:30 a.m. before work.
The night before I planned my entire look from head-to-toe: My short cut slicked and swooped like an old school Nia Long style, tight white jeans that hugged my curves just right, and a cute oversized sweater. The point was to look effortlessly chic.
I could barely sleep from all of the excitement.
I imagined how the breakfast would be: We would arrive at the same time; run-up to one another and kiss hungrily while giving each other bear hugs. We’d hug and kiss. Hug and kiss and say, “I miss you, and I miss you too.” We’d be so enraptured with one another that we couldn’t eat breakfast, then we’d go to his truck and make love for a couple hours before rushing off to work. “Yes, yes, that’s how it will be,” I thought.
I got up three hours early to prepare. I shaved, I nipped, I tucked anything and everything humanly possible to do at home. I left at 7.
At 7:10, he sends a text that says: “Sorry, I can’t make it. I woke up too late.”
Ravishing Raconteur 