THORN LOVE

Whispers of Wounds

The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it." - Henry David Thoreau.

The upscale restaurant radiates sophistication, its ambiance heightened by the gentle murmur of conversation and the soft glow of ambient lighting. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over linen-draped tables adorned with polished silverware. Mile sits at a secluded table, his eyes occasionally glancing at the entrance. Mile couldn't help but glance at his watch, each passing moment accentuating his impatience as Francis was running late.The menu lies open in front of him, but his attention keeps wandering towards the entrance.

"Good evening, sir," the waiter inquires with a warm smile. "Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes"

"I'll wait a bit longer, thank you,"

Mile takes a sip of water, checking his phone discreetly.

An entire hour had slipped away, each ticking second adding fuel to the mounting frustration that Mile was struggling to contain. The elegant restaurant, once a place of potential joy, now felt like a pressure cooker ready to explode. Pensively twirling his glass, Mile questioned his decision to remain seated. Perhaps it was the surge of anger that pinned him to the chair, or maybe a sliver of hope that compelled him to stay. The perplexity of the situation gnawed at him — why would Francis, who had initiated the dinner plans, leave him in this state of confusion. Mile's gaze darted around the restaurant, searching for any sign of Francis.

He reached for his phone and attempted to call Francis. To his dismay, the phone call went straight to voicemail. Confused and agitated, he tried multiple times, each attempt met with the same result — voicemail. This only intensified Mile's sense of betrayal and bewilderment. Was it a deliberate act? Had something unexpected come up? The questions echoed in his mind, accompanied by a growing resentment that made the once-enticing ambiance of the restaurant now feel oppressive. The minutes dragged on, and still, he waited.

All illusions shattered when Mile's phone finally buzzed with an incoming call from Francis. Answering with a mix of anticipation and exasperation, he was met with Francis's voice, hastily apologizing for his tardiness and reassuring him of his imminent arrival.That's when Mile reached his breaking point. Abruptly, he rises from his seat and exits the restaurant.

Right before he could open his car, Francis hurried over to him, grabbing his hands and panting heavily for air.

"Mile...wait...wait...please," Francis pleaded, gasping for air with his one hand on his knee the either tightly held onto Mile's arm.

"Fuck off," Mile snapped as he snatched his hand away from Francis' grasp.

"Can you hear me for a second....please....just a second," Francis implored, his hands halting Mile from opening his car door.

Mile turns and gives him a stern glare, his demeanor signaling to release him.

"Go to hell!"

Francis looks down, his shoulders slumping as he releases a tired breath. The last thing he wants to do is argue.

"Can you please... just for a moment," Francis loosened his hold on Mile's arm, his fingers threading through the velvety texture of his jet-black hair.

"Really? Last I remember, it was you who insisted on having dinner. Not. Me. But. You," Mile's words were sharp, his forefinger punctuating each syllable with jabs at Francis's chest. "But it seems like you're really enjoying messing with me. Seriously, just fuck off and leave me alone,"

"Mile," Francis uttered with a pained expression. Yes, it was him who wanted to have dinner with him, but when Mile emphasized it this way, somehow it really got to him. Like he didn't really want to, but had no choice.