Waiting

There's no point in wasting your time with a description of the scene, or the analogical smell of the atmosphere. All we have here is a guy sitting in a diner, reading a book. Scratch that, pretending to be reading.
Not that he has a problem with reading, or the book itself holds no interest for this young man. No, something else insist his attention at the moment, something so demanding that an attempt to focus on anything else would simply be a lie. Our young man, is waiting for someone.
Even more to a perfect note, he is waiting for a girl. Whom? That's a good question, and also, something we're both not ready to find out.
So there, that's your scene, one young man, sitting at a table, trying relentless hard to hold interest for the book in hand. Automotive life happening all around him. Coffee machines pumping out cup filled stimulation for busy bodies, waitresses meandering back and forth in happy spirits; earning a day's pay. Incoherent chit chat happening all around, and it all barely makes it through one ear and right out the other.
Sure enough, this biological humanoid must be feeling something; the synaptic responses of a mind are always governed by some reasoning! So what is it? What's the chemical reaction happening within this focused though fragile young chap?
ANTICIPATION!
Ah yes, that ever so popular feeling, not uncommon, though quite unwanted! This emotion is always prevalent in dealings of boy and girl. You need reminding? How about the nervous feeling of grade 5 hand holding, or the crush/kiss butterflies, not to mention “first time” preparation!
But our young man has been out of high school for some time now. And unless this story is taking a back seat in the station wagon of soft porn literature, his first time will not be in this Cafe'. Not to mention his “first time” is little long gone!
No, the waiting of Her, has him enthralled.
Did i happen to mention that the girl he is WANTING for, (ha sorry, Typo,) the girl he is waiting for, is a girl who he has only met once? Or that their brief and slightly hazy interaction was years ago? How about the small detail concerning their communication since that time? via Internet?
No? Oh well, my apologize. Yes, that clears things up a bit; now you understand why his anxiety levels are jumping jacks in his stomach.
So where were we? Ah yes, his crafty “reading” ruse. In an almost desperation, he stares at the font. Anything to get his mind centered somewhere else. He curses the sunshine streaming through the window behind him, beating on the pages and only contrasting them that much bolder.
One sentence, “i wonder if she'll be on time?”, a whole paragraph, “did we agree on the same place”. Nearly most of the page gone, and all he manages to think about are insidious situations that would make Murphy's law seem optimistic.
Our poor guy, why be apprehensive you ask?
Because he loves her. No, Not the girl. Not yet anyway. He loves the idea of her, the fabricated image of her personality. He loves the words that come back to him on his screen; the underlined humor they share between inhibited print.
Or at least that's what runs through his mind, at this moment, in this diner, at a time when she will be in front of him at any given second, Damn who can read under conditions like this.
“Brandon?”
He looks up...