At slightly past seven on a rainy night, Wayne pushed inside the restaurant and headed straight for the bar, his aluminum cane clacking against the parquet floor. He claimed his customary seat at the end where he could watch the muted TV without twisting his neck.

With a tattooed hand, Brianna swiped a rag over the counter top and laid a cocktail napkin before him. “The usual?”

“Yes, please. Has anybody been looking for me? I’m a few minutes late. I might have missed them.”

“Sorry, no one’s been asking.”

“You sure? I can’t trust time anymore. It seems to slow down…as if gravity is holding it back just to frustrate me.”

“Sorry, Wayne. Gravity around here still sucks as usual.”

Brianna smiled at the tired old joke. So far, their small talk followed the same pattern they’d used over the past year, always on Wednesday nights around dinner date time.

“So who are you waiting for? Must be some hot date.”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Do you want anything to eat?”

His ashen face brightened. “I’ll have a bowl of your salmon bisque and some hot bread, please.”

“Coming up.” Brianna finished making his Flatliner and placed the iced coffee drink in front of him. “Go easy with that before your food comes.”

“I will, honey, I will.”

With trembling hands, Wayne reached for his wallet, withdrew several bills, and slid them across the bar. He always paid early and left a generous tip. He checked his watch and stared at the TV, at an NBA game, the Raptors running the floor.

A pretty Asian woman approached the empty stool next to Wayne. Brianna leaned across the bar. “Sorry, miss, that seat’s taken.”

The woman looked indignant but moved off.

With his soup bowl empty and the bread gone, Brianna cleared his service. “Do you want another drink?”

He stared at her with glassy eyes. “You betcha. I’m waitin’ for my hot date. Can’t leave just yet.”

The second coffee drink kept him awake, but filled him with high-grade alcohol. While watching the basketball game, he rocked back and forth until he almost slipped off the barstool, catching himself at the last moment. He muttered something Brianna couldn’t understand; it sounded like a foreign language.

When he ordered a third Flatliner, she cut him off. “Wayne, it’s time for you to go home. Give me your cell and I’ll text Uber for ya.”

“My…my date might show. I can’t…can’t go.”

“Next week, Wayne. Try again next week.”

Brianna watched him shuffle unsteadily across the floor and wait by the door. The Uber drivers knew the drill. One pulled up out front and blinked the headlights.

“What’s the old guy’s story?” a newbie waiter asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” Brianna replied. “Supposedly, a couple years back he was going to meet a girlfriend here, a real nice widow. But she never made it, got killed in a car wreck.”

“So why does he come back?”

“He thinks his friend’s death was faked…that she’ll show up on Wednesday night with some wild excuse…that they’ll live happily ever after.”

The waiter shook his head. “Sounds like he’s an old alkie with the DTs.”

Brianna glared at him. “You may be right. But it’s still sad…and a little sweet.”

Winter passed into spring. One Wednesday night Wayne didn’t show up. The local news reported his death in a downtown crosswalk, an apparent heart attack. But Brianna kept an eye on the end barstool, somehow expecting to see him sipping a Flatliner, staring at the TV, waiting…waiting.

On a Wednesday night in June, an old woman stood at the bar and motioned to Brianna. “Say Miss, you wouldn’t happen to know a fella named Wayne, would you?”

# # #

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His short stories have been accepted more than 350 times by journals and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Photo: Orlova Maria