Two Hours
They say that a lady walking in stiletto heels means business, for the clicking sound exudes her power and confidence; however, when you drag your feet as I do, the clicking is more like a screeching, ominous symphony. It’s not power nor confidence—it’s the anthem of misery and exhaustion.
Thankfully, the hallway is empty.
My phone keeps vibrating in my purse. I let it ring, reluctant to face the world. Pausing at the front door of our unit, I lower my gaze, letting my long, brown locks cascade over my face. Fingers on the doorknob, I silently scrutinize my reflection on the polished glass tiles. I breathe deep, pretend to smile—and immediately, I notice that I am actually close to tears.
Three hours ago, I was a different woman.
Now, I just… look sad. My eyelids feel extremely heavy, and lifting my limbs is a challenge. All I crave is sleep. To forget.
Well, I guess I am sad.
The outcome of today’s events isn’t new to me. If anything, the familiarity should give me immunity. But newsflash! It doesn’t. Truthfully, the feeling of worthlessness cuts deeper each time.
Why did I expect this date to be different anyway? What got inside this stupid skull of mine?
Fine. Allow me to elaborate: I just got rejected. Again. What aggravates me is that this time around, I tried.
Really tried. I splurged on a new pair of red pumps and an expensive, black dress. I painted my nails burgundy and even straightened my thick wavy hair. Heck, I even stalked the guy on social media like a desperate fool so that I’d know exactly which topics to bring up before I see him.
No, he didn’t explicitly tell me he didn’t like me, but he also didn’t have to. The mere fact that he ended the date abruptly was enough. There would be no second date.
I grunt under my breath as the events of the night vividly unfurl in my head.
“Sam, I’m really sorry,” Mark said without looking me in the eye. He fiddled with his sleeves and added, “This is embarrassing, but I just remembered that I have some research to finish. I have to go.”
“Oh, um, I see,” I mumbled, glancing at my watch, my insides tangling into knots. “It’s–It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “I also have to work on some projects anyway,” I didn’t have any.
Two hours. It only took two hours for it to crumble.
He asked for the bill. I offered to split it, which he politely refused, then we walked out of the restaurant in excruciating silence.
“Do you need a ride?” I offered, a last pathetic attempt to prolong the date.
He looked down, toyed with his sleeves again, his jaw rigid. “No, I’ll take the cab,” he said.
“Are you sure? Where are you headed? I can drop you off.”
He shook his head quietly. “I’m good.” Then, he waved his hand, and a taxi pulled up instantly. My shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Bye, Sam.”
“Yeah, sure. Bye. Thanks… for your time.”
“Yeah... Thanks,” he echoed. Awkwardly.
And just like that Mark left. That was it.
The end.
He was my type. He was funny and smart and he was a journalist with eyeglasses that made him look older despite his youthful features. But none of it mattered. He blew me off right after dinner. My prep time took longer than the date itself.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I finally open the door and step into our condominium—Unit 1604. I emphasize our because I share this two-bedroom space with my older brother, Kuya Patrick. With a flick of the light switch, the interior I had meticulously designed comes into view.
The kitchen walls are painted marble gray, with wooden countertops and three bar stools marking the divide between the kitchen and dining area. Black and white curtains hang on top of the windows, and in the corner, a wine rack is stocked with bottles of wine and champagne.
Moving into the dining room, painted in serene ivory white, is an oak dining set for four. A white ceramic vase with sunflowers graces the table, and I swap them out almost every week to keep them fresh. Beyond the kitchen, out of sight, is the utility room where we do laundry.
From the dining area, it’s only seven steps to the living room, where a silvery, sectional sofa with beige throw pillows perfectly complements the 48" flat-screen TV. The walls are ivory white as well, and a soft gray carpet covers the floor. A glass square coffee table holds another vase with sunflowers, bringing in a touch of nature indoors.
I cast my glance across the space, my gaze lingering on the enormous glass windows. It’s nighttime now, but I can picture how, when daylight streams in through the brown curtains gracefully falling from ceiling to floor, the room will be filled with a warm, cozy ambiance.
A complete contrast to how I currently feel.
Heaving another sigh out of frustration, I slump onto the couch, staring at the space in defeat. Kuya Patrick’s not here, and thank God, he isn’t. Who knows what he’d say to make this even worse?
He’s two years older than me, and yes, we’re close, but his constant need to mock me for my failed dates has begun to surpass the sisterly love he has for me. At this point, it’s less love and more… just annoying.
I kick my shoes off, and they hit the center table, producing a crisp click sound. My phone finally stops ringing. To distract myself, I power on the television, idly flicking through channels. The sound it emits is vibrant; my mind, however, is elsewhere.
“Where did I go wrong?” I whisper.
I feel so small, so stupid, so… hopeless. I have no idea why my blind dates always end the same way. The moment they request the bill without asking for my phone number, I realize it’s over.
My phone rings. Again. I begrudgingly fumble through my purse and see it’s Cathy—my matchmaker and one of my very few friends. She won’t stop calling. I wince as I can already tell what’s coming: she’ll chew me out again, and I’ll say for the hundredth time that I don’t know what happened. Because I don’t. Seriously.
The second the phone presses against my ear, Cathy’s voice slams through, “You’ve got to be kidding me, Sam.”
