I was watching a show about Fawlty Towers and I have no idea why, but it reminded me of my dating days, which inspired me to write the following Blind Date short story…
Blind Date
Emma had the distinct impression she’d stumbled onto a low-budget film set. Fog seeped from the café’s entrance into the grey pavement, barely pierced by the dim glow of candlelight. A shiver ran down her back. What was she getting herself into?
Emma took out her phone and sent a quick text to her friend, “At Cafe.” She tucked her phone back into her velvet bag and let it drop to her side. Shaking her head, she tilted her nose skyward. She’d been waiting for weeks for this date. Late-night calls, and sneaky texts while at work. They were finally going to meet! A frisson of excitement sent butterflies charging around her chest. This was going to level the playing field. Everyone was in the same boat and whatever other cliche her mind was going to come up with next. She smiled at the thought. Atta girl. With every hesitant step, her curiosity battled her apprehension, making her heart race—a silent pact with herself to face whatever lay ahead.
Venturing into the café, a complex aroma enveloped her, a blend of sweet mystery that teased her senses. What was that? As she was attempting to identify and failing, a corner of a table hit her roundly in the stomach. She let out an oof as the air escaped from her lungs. A cascade of what she hoped–prayed was just water (but smelled suspiciously like vintage disappointment) fell onto a shadowy figure’s lap. Emma held her breath, bracing herself for a storm of rebuke, but a voice, unexpectedly warm, floated through the fog. “Adds to the ambience, doesn’t it?” The speaker, a gentleman with the calm of a saint and, unfortunately, now, the attire of a drowned rat, offered a smile rather than scorn. At least she could blame the mist this time.
Tom had to be around here somewhere. She scanned what little of the room she could see for red. Emma’s eyes caught a burst of colour in the haze—a scarf as vibrant as a freshly painted postbox. “You’re here!” exclaimed its wearer, relief washing over her voice like a tide. “I was nearly late today you know, I had a Mount Everest in ironing, I should go in for the Olympics.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emma stumbled over her words, “I thought you were someone else.” She navigated away. Emma felt the first leavening of her anxiety. People really were in the same boat.
Emma held her head high and used the dim silhouettes of tables to navigate her way to the back of the café. She was looking for a red T-shirt; she reminded herself. Emma carried on, feeling like an intrepid explorer through the dim forest of tables.
“Tom?” she called out, her voice a mix of eagerness and fear of yet another mistaken identity. A figure rose before her. It had to be him!
She approached, her excitement bubbling over. “Tom?” she called out again, her voice tinged with hope and a slight dread of another misidentification.
The figure turned, and for a moment, Emma’s heart sank. Before her stood a man, dressed in red, but whose face was definitely not Tom’s. He wore a hat so peculiar it deserved its own postcode—a towering, feathered monstrosity that screamed ‘fashion victim’ or perhaps ‘bird enthusiast gone rogue.’
“Oh, I’m not Tom,” he confessed with a grin, “but with a hat like this, I can see why you asked. I’m meeting a friend who has a flair for the dramatic in headwear. You must be Emma. Tom mentioned you might mistake a few folks before finding him. He’s over there.”
Pointing through the mist, the man’s directions were as clear as she expected—utterly baffling. Yet, Emma thanked him, amused by the thought of Tom pre-empting this chaos.
As she navigated through the fog, guided by the echoes of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses, Emma finally spotted the real Tom. He stood up, towering over the table as if it were doll’s furniture. his crimson scarf over his red t-shirt. An interesting fashion choice, it was a stark contrast against the muted, misty backdrop of the café.
Their eyes met, and the world seemed to pause—except for a waiter who tripped nearby, sending a platter of what was hopefully mocktails into a slow-motion arc through the air.
Laughter broke the silence, delight in the absurdity of their meeting breaking through. “You found me,” Tom grinned.
“A journey worth taking,” Emma replied, her nerves settling into a warm anticipatory buzz. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“As I wouldn’t have missed seeing this café through your eyes,” Tom said, his voice sincere. “You said you were ‘visually challenged,’ but I think you see more clearly than most.”
As they sat down, exchanging stories of their respective journeys through the café’s misty maze, they relaxed, each laugh a recent memory.