Love determines how long you live, some people are in their hundreds, but some don’t even live to be 20.
It shouldn’t take ten years to set up a date with the woman who loves you.
The thought doesn’t show on Tasoula’s face. The night hums around her, the fairy lights draped over the patio blending in with the fireflies teasing at the edges of the wine bar’s glow. It’s a waste to come here at night. During the day the vineyard stretches out below the hilltop restaurant and the trellis’ hugging the walkway up glow with morning glories.
Technically, the woman she’s waiting for has given Tasoula decades of lifespan already. Is it really a crime for her to waste just one of them?
Tasoula leans back in her garden chair. Her reservation had been for a table inside at noon but, as the hours dragged by, she’d been shuffled outside to make room for guests whose dates actually showed up. She’s not the easy sort to move, so there’s a half-empty bottle of complimentary wine on the wrought iron table. She’s pressed to the edge of the patio, right against the cedar fence separating the seating area from the sudden drop into darkness. They’d been very attentive until the dinner rush came in. Then she’d been forgotten, fading into the shadow until not even the most senior server looked her way any longer.
As usual, it’s not until Tasoula is forgotten that Margot shows up.