It was the third day. Rose in hand, the same rose in fact, he continued waiting. She wasn’t coming. She had to come. It was all planned out months ago. Maybe he’d wait just a few minutes longer. This would be the last day. The rose was past its full bloom and the petals curling around the edges, had a mottled appearance. He’d even lost a couple petals in the car, on the passenger seat, the seat she was supposed to be sitting in next to him. It was the way it was supposed to be. He can’t give up. She’ll come. Maybe she was in an accident. No, he’d called all the local hospitals yesterday and followed up with the police, looking to see if there was an accident reported that matched her car. Maybe she didn’t have that car anymore. Maybe she was in an accident, run off the road and now sits under a bridge somewhere, thirsty, hungry, injured. Waiting for him to find her, help her. He started to pace. Yes, that could be it. She hadn’t answered her phone. He’d tried at least a couple of hundred times, and it just went to voicemail.
Wait a minute. Maybe its the date that’s wrong. Try to think. Think. What was the last email message she’d sent. He’d read it wrong; hadn’t he? Even last night, when he was going through all the emails she’d sent, he skimmed over the date and didn’t read it carefully enough, so sure it was this week. That must be it. She’s not answering her phone because she’s maybe out of the country and won’t be back until they were to meet. She did mention something about leaving town; didn’t she? Yes, of course she did. She’s unreachable presently, that’s all. He’ll wait here for just an hour or two more, and then he’ll go check the emails again and maybe even try to call one more time. There had to be an explanation, a simple one, one he’d overlooked. Silly not to have checked the date more carefully. That must be it. Yes, it must be it. One more hour, however, just in case. It won’t be dark quite yet. He’ll buy a new rose tomorrow, maybe a yellow one this time.