Time After Time

Valentine's Day. Montreal. Not the busiest time of year, but in one of the most romantic cities in the world according to US News and World Report, busy enough. I maneuvered through the crowd, working my way toward the exit of the airport. As I opened the door to leave, a gush of frigid air burst over and past me. My teeth chattered as I quick stepped to the curb and looked to hail a taxi. I didn't have long to wait and soon I was nestled snugly in the back of a car, on my way to meet my husband at a small Spanish restaurant called Borroco.

The driver seemed in no rush, and I didn't know the city enough to demand different routes, so I relaxed and enjoyed the view. The street sides were lined with the usual dirty snow piles, the trees on the sidewalk were trimmed with twinkling white lights. People were still out and about in the 6 degree Celsius weather, hurrying to their destinations. I tried to imagine what my husband might be doing, where he might be in his travels to meet me. I pictured him already at the restaurant, waiting at a small table for two, sipping on a glass of deep red wine, maybe a Malbec or a Rioja, more fitting to the menu and place. I could see him seeing me as I approached the table. The smile I love crossing his face as he stood up to greet me, those blue eyes locked on mine, and his hands taking mine as he leaned in to kiss my cheek.

I noticed the car slowing and rifled around in my purse to find my wallet. I paid the taxi, opened the door, and rushed out to cross the sidewalk and quickly entered the door of Borroco. The maitre de came over at once and helped me out of my coat. He handed it off to be hung and walked me over to the seating area. "Bonjour Madame, comment-allez vous ce soir?" he asked. "Bonjour, comme ci comme ca" I replied in my awkward high school french. "Parlez-vous Anglais?" I finished, my ears burning hot and red. "But of course, madame. Do you have a reservation with us tonight? Are you here alone or meeting someone?" he asked unruffled and not bothered by my mangling of the French language. "I'm meeting my husband, we have a reservation," I replied looking him in the eye now, realizing if he was not judging me, I did not have to judge me either. He scanned the reservations book, found our name and said, "Ah, you knew to make a reservation in advance or you would not have such a fine spot! You are the first to arrive in your party. Come with me please." "Lead the way, " I said a little disappointed that my earlier imagings would not be reality. I followed him into the dining area where he sat me in a corner that was tucked to one side of a beautiful bar. The area still had a view of the restaurant but had an air of privacy about it. "Thank you," I murmured as he pulled out my chair and waited until I was seated before he bowed and left.


[unfinished]

run into my "the one who got away" before my husband arrives. what happens?