Give Me Just One Night

1. Traffic Jam

The pity in the young waiter's clear blue eyes was enough to send me into a downward spiral. To my right, beside the small white plate with a lonely mozzarella stick half eaten on it, sat my phone. My eyes wander to it.

"I'll take the check," I say, running my finger over the edge of the plate. I'm afraid to look up.

"Of course. I'll be right back."

My inbox remained stagnant. Not an incoming message in sight. I flew across the country to meet the guy I've been in a long distance relationship with for the past year. He missed picking me up at the airport (he had some excuse about work), so I dragged my suitcase with me, got in a cab, and traveled into Manhattan to wait for him at the restaurant he was supposed to take me to. There were only so many hours I could occupy that seat. It was a busy Friday night, and the restaurant was crawling with customers waiting their turn.

I don't have anywhere to go. He told me not to make a reservation at a hotel. The plan was that I would stay with him at his apartment. At this point it's safe to say that plan is no longer valid.

"Here you go ma'am. I'll return in a moment to retrieve your check."

In the entire three hours I'd been here, I ordered two glasses of wine, and mozzarella sticks. My last meal prior was when I left in the wee hours of the morning from LAX, with the exception of the bag of chips at the airport. I rummage through my purse, retrieve the money, and wish the waiter a good day when he returns.

Outside the sounds of Manhattan roar to life. Sirens echo in the distance, impatient drivers honk, and someone is playing the violin a few stores down. I miss the quiet of my small town in California.

My Uber request is accepted and the app lights up. My phone is on it's last few bars and that scares me a little. I decide my best option is to high tail it back to the airport and see what I can do about finding a flight home.

When the slate gray Nissan Rogue pulls up, the passenger window rolls down.

"Dakota Ford?" the driver asks.

I hold back my flowing chestnut brown hair, and get eye level with the open window.

"Yes. Shane?"

His soft green eyes and soft smile catch me off guard. So far since getting to New York, I've noticed that everyone has a resting bitch face, but this guy is a little less intimidating and I want to thank him for that.

He catches my hesitation, and shows me his ID. The picture matches. He's young, probably around my age.

"Can you pop the trunk? I have some luggage."

"Oh, no let me."

He puts the car in park and gets out, a yellow taxi narrowly misses him. My heart rages in my chest. Manhattan is insane. He jogs around as if it didn't even affect him. He's tall and I have to look up. His lips pull into a smile.

"Thank you," I say, as he takes the handle and brings it to the back.

"Of course, it's my job to give you a good Uber experience."

I laugh lightly. "Are you trying to get me to give you a five star rating?"

He shuts the door, leans over, and smirks. "Something like that."

Before I can reach for the door handle, he slides in front of me and does it himself.

"So far, three -point- five stars," I say.