Botch.com, by Phil Testa

It’s a clear night in New York. The cool wind blows reminding us that autumn is around the corner. She’s been sitting there for fifteen minutes.

The light in the bar is dim. There’s just enough to show the contours of her face; smooth jaw line, sharp cheekbones and curious eyes. Her blonde hair is draped elegantly down her back. She waits for her online mystery man.

Seven o’clock strikes. The condensation cries down the side of her pint glass like rain drops on a lonely windowpane. Her thoughts are written on her face. She tries to conceal her nervousness, her anxiousness. The frustration is building as she presses her lips together after another sip of Six Point Sweet Action Ale.

Another ten minutes passes through the bar and it’s clear she is debating her desire to remain seated and continue her waiting game. Just as she rushes another sip of beer to her lips, a man swiftly approaches the table.

The man – dressed in trendy khaki pants, a purple printed button-down shirt, gray blazer and straw fedora – comes prepared with an apology already rehearsed. His body language screams with discomfort, the same discomfort onlookers feel after noticing the small red carnation pinched into his left blazer lapel.

He quickly excuses himself to the bathroom, a common scapegoat to avoid the awkwardness of being late.

While he is in the bathroom performing his routine “freshening up” and practicing his next few sentences – ones that will include quirky jokes and a radical tale of his quest to reach the bar on time – she is rushing the final gulp of Sweet Action Ale.

She gathers her belongings and walks out the door. She doesn’t even throw her scarf on or perch her bag upon her shoulder. She leaves as swiftly as he arrived. He has no idea.

He steps out of the bathroom, takes a quick look around and sits on the stool opposite where she had been. He is denying her sudden absence as ditching him. He assumes she is in the bathroom or making a phone call or possibly something more extravagant.

He sits at the now vacant table, condensation stuttering down his temples. His insides are turning as he analyzes the possibilities of her sudden departure.

Could it be the carnation? If only the florist wasn’t closed, I wouldn’t have had to take it from that gravestone when I passed the cemetery.

His efforts to portray a cool, collected man have now turned to hot flashes and a flop sweat. He removes his straw fedora to loosen the pressure on his brow.

Is it this hat? I know it’s practically out of season and there’s no sun out at night but it works. Right?

The arms of the clock lean on 7:35pm just his arms lean on the empty table. He politely waves off the waitress as she asks him if he would like a drink. His loneliness has left him cold enough already.

He casually removes himself from the situation. Escorting himself outside, he takes his phone out of his retro khaki’s. He begins sweeping his thumb down a list of old e-mails he exchanged with his mystery girl earlier in the week.

Everything seemed fine. We talked and laughed and she even made the plan to meet for a drink. Was I that late? I checked my face in the bathroom and my Botox injections weren’t showing, so I know it wasn’t that.

He races through his phone as fast as the thoughts in his head. He searches diligently for any clue that could have left him alone outside of the crowded bar. He walks away.

Shortly after, he walks by again, this time in a hardened stride. Pacing past the crowded open windows of the bar, past the patrons, the medium rare burgers, past all that Sweet Action, he is searching for answers. He is searching for his date.

Another pass at the bar just a few moments later, this time his face is tightened forward with a plan. With his phone still in hand, one can only imagine hate e-mails and sarcastic remarks about the success of the date, the calmness of the autumn night since he had spent most of it outside.

He e-mails her his radical story of being late and how there was nothing radical about it. There was no stalled train filled with orphans that begged for saving, no deserted puppies lying in the middle of Columbus Circle he needed to pleasantly disperse to hospital patients. The only thing that kept him was that carnation. The Florist had closed early due to illness and that’s when he grew ill with resentment.

I could’ve gotten there earlier if I didn’t spend so much time in front of the mirror. He shouldn’t have closed early though. No sign, no apology, no blazer flair.

He makes one last pass on his way home, still no reappearance of his date. This strategy continues on in his mind as he walks home. Thinking of what he would’ve done had she just been in the bathroom, or noticed a friend at the next table. He would have apologized. He would have said he was sorry for everything and he would have bought her some more Sweet Action. He would have charmed her back to his place where they would have made out for a short while until she felt it was time to go home. They would have exchanged pleasantries and opaque plans to meet again sometime soon. She would have other plans though.

Three weeks would go by and no one would see her. She’d be last seen by the world on an expired 2% milk carton. She’d be last seen by him just a few minutes ago. He would be at his desk, a sewing machine motor running tirelessly at his project. His fedora fitted around his head, condensation running down his glass of Yoo-Hoo and a dried carnation pinned to the wall above him.

The final piece to his skin suit is almost complete.

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