GavinWhat if she isn’t there?
As I tear through Toronto’s rush hour traffic, past lines of cars and the turning heads of stunned pedestrians, I push the question from my mind for the fifth time: What if she isn’t there?
Again, I glance at my phone: 6:03 pm. Three minutes late and I still have a ways to go. What if I get there and she isn’t there at all, has left, fed up with waiting?
It took a week for both of our schedules to calm down enough to see each other; I won’t be able to take messing this up.
But how could I have predicted that Hannah would call just as I was about to leave? Or that the flower shop would have a lineup as long as rush hour at McDonald’s? Or that traffic would be horrible and every other light would be against me?
I got roses, I dressed up in my best suit, the
