Mailbu Fantasy

You check your watch again, for the eighth time, and curse under your breath. Twenty minutes late. And no calls on your cell phone, not even a damn text. Not that you expect one – she does this shit all the time. You wonder again why you put up with this treatment from her. And again, you remind yourself that you put up with it because she's fucking hot, and you're lucky she even gave you a second glance, so for her to go out with you on a regular basis for the last six months is worth it. Or so you keep telling yourself. But it's starting to wear thin, all the same.

The worst part of it is feeling the eyes of the other diners in the restaurant staring at you, or, alternatively, making a point of not looking at you so they don't appear to be staring at the poor guy sitting alone at a table for two. You wave the waiter over and order another beer. “Yes, sir, right away. And are you still expecting your companion, sir, or would you like to go ahead and order?”

You restrain yourself from snapping at him. It's not him you're pissed off at, it's her. “She'll be here, she's just running a little late.” He smiles and nods, then disappears.

It's a beautiful restaurant, right off the beach, and with a great view of the sunset on the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the west wall of the dining room. White linen tablecloths, crystal glasses, all very expensive. The food's decent but not nearly as good as a dozen cheaper restaurants you could name. But you're here because it's her favorite restaurant. Typical.

Your cell phone rings. Amanda. Finally.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I'm sorry I can't make it.”

“What? You made such a big deal about it being our six month anniversary, and wanting to do something special, and now you can't make it? Why?”

She sighed heavily. “Look, I wanted to tell you in person, at dinner, but...”

“What?”

“We're through, okay? We're done. I'm seeing someone else.” There was a click, then silence.

Numbly, you slip your phone back into your pocket and signal the waiter to bring the check. You pay for your overpriced beers, and saunter out the door like a zombie. Outside, you can't decide what to do. You don't want to go home to your dreary, lonely apartment, but you don't have anywhere else to go. You sit in the driver's seat of your car with the door open, and stare at the sunset.

The beach. Sand between your toes. A mind-clearing walk along the beach is just what you need. You leave your shoes and socks in the car and head down toward the strand, actually relishing the pain from the parking lot concrete burning your soles, still searing hot from the sunny summer day. Once you set foot on the cool, damp surf and feel the ocean lapping up to your ankles, you head south, hands in pockets, watching the circling gulls overhead and finding some success in thinking about absolutely nothing.

You are beginning to feel a bit better, and are considering turning back, when your foot catches on something hard and rounded and slick, sticking up from the sand, and you manage to catch yourself with your hands before falling flat on your face. You look back, and can't believe your eyes. It's an oblong bronze object, and even though it's partially buried in the sand, you can see that it can only be one of those cliché oil lamps, the ones you rub to make a genie appear and grant you wishes. You let out a short, unpleasant bark of laughter at the absurdity of it all, but you automatically dig the lamp out of the sand and brush it off.