Angie glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes. Only thirty minutes? How was that possible? She resisted the urge to sigh aloud and took another sip of her wine. At least he chose a nice restaurant – white tablecloths, dim lighting, overpriced pasta. Sam was her typical type – clean shaven, good head of hair, cute, but not drop – your – jaw handsome. 

“So Angie, what do you do for work?” Sam asked, swirling his wine like a real wine connoisseur. 

Here we go, Angie thought, mentally preparing for the script she’d recited several times this week. “I’m a waitress,” she said, offering a polite smile, “but I’m going back to school for forensic science.”

Sam perked up. “Oh, that’s interesting,” he says quickly changing the subject. “I’m a financial advisor. It’s a great field—lots of growth, lots of strategy. You know, I always tell my clients…” And he was off.

Angie nodded, eyes glazing over as he launched into a monologue about compound interest and portfolio diversification. She drifted—mentally flipping through her to-do list, wondering if she remembered to turn off her curling iron before she left. 

As soon as there was a pause long enough to be polite, she excused herself. “I’m just going to run to the restroom.”

Inside the stall, she pulled out her phone and opened Tinder. Swiping had become less about finding love and more like playing Candy Crush—mindless entertainment with a dash of regret. A familiar face popped up. Anthony. From high school. A couple grades ahead of her, but they’d had Spanish together. He was a jock, but one of the rare decent ones—smart, funny, the kind of guy who didn’t need to prove anything.

What the hell, she thought, and swiped right.

It’s a match.

She grinned and typed, “Hey, remember me?”

Angie paused at the bathroom mirror. Her light blue sweater made her eyes pop. She fluffs her hair, adds some gloss to her lips and takes a breath. She gave herself a small smirk – Alright, we can at least have some fun. 

Back at the table, Sam was pouring the last of the wine into his glass—clearly ready to call it a night. Angie slid into her seat with a small smile. “Saving me any?” she teased, nodding at his glass. 

Sam was caught off guard and chuckled awkwardly, “ Oh. I can ask for another bottle if you’d like?”

She waved him off with a grin. “I’m fine. So- I think I’ve learned enough about investments for the night. Tell me, what do you actually do for fun?”

Sam leaned in, seeming to fuel up with this change in topic. “Oh! Right – fun. I golf mostly.”

The conversation kept moving from there, more out of politeness than interest. Siblings. Weekend plans. A mildly amusing story about a bachelorette party she once served at the restaurant. Angie smiled, nodded, and laughed at the right moments. But there was no spark, no click—just two strangers politely filling the space between the appetizers and the goodbye.

When the check came, Sam paid without hesitation, still playing the role of the gentleman. 

Outside, he held the door, and they walked out into the cool night air.

“I’m parked this way,” she said, pointing down the street.

He offered a courteous hug—polite, distant—and they exchanged the usual empty well-wishes. 

“Take care,” “Good luck with school,” “Yeah, you too.”

Angie climbed into her car and started the engine. Her phone buzzed.

A message from Anthony: “Hey, of course I remember you. Even back then, you were kind of unforgettable.”

A warm blush rose in her cheeks. She smiled, a real one this time, and replied. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it would be something. Or maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t bad luck after all.