Three-Way

He wiped the thin film of sweat that had formed on his twitchy palm across the upper thigh of his navy-blue jeans. He was stood outside the bar smoking a guilty cigarette. By every metric, the evening was going well, except for the ringing phone in his hand. He didn’t know if he wanted to answer it, much less what to say if he did.

She terminated the call and yawned. He must be busy, she thought. Maybe he hasn’t got out of work yet. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk. She ended the call and sent a text which read ‘hey, wondered if you were around tonight?’ and then opened a takeaway app and selected a pizza place round the corner, kidding herself that she wouldn’t ask for delivery from a place so close (again).

The phone stopped ringing; thank god. A text came through, which made his stomach lurch, but it was relatively noncommittal. He wasn't around tonight. He left her on read, wondering how much more of this he could take. He took a deep drag of the cigarette before noticing that he’d left it so long since his last drag that it had gone out. He re-lit it with his faded green lighter, and burnt his thumb on the spark wheel. He sucked his thumb, then smoked the last of the cigarette. Turned around, looked inside. Date was still sat there (no not date meetup in dates clothes).

To stave off the boredom, and to divert her attention away from the annoyance that she’d been left on read, she rang her friend, who launched into a fierce diatribe about some mutual friend - no, no, I just can’t believe he’d say that, I mean, he’s her boss… What a pig. Yeah. God, poor her. We’ll all have to go for drinks soon, yeah, I agree. When the call ended she placed the pizza order on the delivery app, saying ‘fuck it’ out loud, but quietly, and then she pulled up some light bondage porn on her phone, and masturbated (why won’t somebody tie me up it’s not too much to ask). When she was done, she thought of that St Vincent song and smiled to herself, though she didn’t have any garbage to take out.

He took his seat opposite her, and- yes, yes, this place is incredible, I can’t believe I haven’t been here before, and oh, what’s that? no I don’t think I’ve ever had deep fried halloumi, though deep-fried cheese sounds… sinful. He shuffled in his seat (too much of a pause before sinful too flirty too obvious fuck sake) and then he took a deep drink from his glass of Malbec, out of equal parts embarrassment, a desire to get drunk, and an uncertainty over what to say next.

She thought about what next week was shaping up to be like. She had dance class, and if this guy never got back to her then she could free up time for that acting class (I really ought to make time for my mum too she just hasn’t been the same since dad’s diagnosis). She frowned, and then looked at the pizza tracker. Fifteen minutes until delivery. Thank god for the miracles of late capitalism.

How had he got here? He’d got chatting to her one afternoon by the photocopier and mentions of a boyfriend were conspicuous by their absence, a perfectly pleasant chat, mildly flirtatious, and then (you instigated this this is you all on you) a drink got arranged. She’s single, she’s got to be single, women will take every opportunity to mention their boyfriend. He thumbed the rim of his glass and laughed, genuinely, at her joke about sex in an elevator. He’d have to borrow that (not the only thing wrong on so many levels though is it).

She gasped audibly at the news on her phone. This can’t have happened? She scrolled through the comments to check it was legitimate, and- no, it actually is (dating for six seven years weren’t they engaged god I hope that never happens to me). She sent a text to her friend under the pretence of a non-committal catch-up, but in reality fishing for gossip, and it wasn’t long before her inbox was flooded with accusations and juicy details of his of infidelity. He'd got someone pregnant, even. She smiled (I hope nobody else takes this much satisfaction from my misfortune am I a bad person).

Wines finished, he had stepped outside again to smoke another cigarette. He just needed to make up his mind, as soon as possible (just just there is no just about this). If he didn’t, he would risk hurting at least one person in a not-insignificant way. The thought made his stomach twist even further. This was agony; he was plagued by perpetual decision and now it was beginning to enact a toll on those closest to him. Three months they’d been dating, and, no, no words of commitment had been pledged, but a certain point it goes without saying. And here he was arranging a date with another beautiful, single woman. She’d be so hurt if she knew (maybe men really are pigs).

She opened the door to the pizza delivery woman, giving a sheepish grin and handing over the cash. She looked at the bill, and- god. They’ve even waived the delivery fee. What must they think of her (stop being so dramatic seriously stop it). She walked over to the sofa and listlessly ate a slice, while she queued an episode of a popular sitcom on her small television, and thought about the money she wasn’t saving. She checked her phone; still no sign of him. Maybe he’s finally had enough and moved on, she thought with barely a shrug. If only he’d tell her one way or the other.

She looked at him stood outside, for the second time in half an hour. He seemed cute, if a little nervous; it didn’t really match up that he was a smoker either. She signalled to the waiter for another glass of wine. If it wasn’t going to go anywhere, she might as well get some free drinks out of it- oh thank you yes, a large glass of Merlot please, I’m not sure what he’s having, can you come back? She thought about all the money she had spent on makeup, which assuaged her mild guilt, then wondered if he had a girlfriend at home or something like that. He seemed like he held everyone at arm’s length (urgh men and their issues). She considered whether to tell him, and decided against it (nobody really gets polyamory nobody understands makes me sad plus I think Atlanta would find him too much a drip anyway).

He stepped back into the restaurant for the final time that night, and knew that he would make a decision; he just wasn’t quite sure what it would be yet (fuck you Kierkegaard).