Merlot slouched at the restaurant table, his Victorian waistcoat chafing like a rejected manuscript. Student loans and a late internet bill loomed larger than the ungraded papers crammed in his bag. His characters—those smug, fictional jerks—didn't care he was drowning. Sorry, I ghosted your novel, folks; I'm too broke to care. His professor's assistant gig bought instant noodles, not the gender reassignment surgery he'd scribbled into his fantasies. And that haircut? Meant to charm, it left him looking like Dan when he was drafted into the Ossory War. The cheapest barber in town; he should've known.
Lemony swept in, ten minutes late, his three-piece suit slicing the dim light like a plot twist Merlot didn't write. He slid into the chair, yanking his striped tie like it was out for blood. "This place is… extra," he muttered, eyes flicking to the exit like he'd wandered into the wrong book. "Thought we were just talking about my draft."
Merlot forced a grin, praying it masked his fluttering nerves. "It's just close to my place," he lied, knowing damn well that his cramped apartment was a thirty-minute bus ride away.
The waiter swooped in, all tuxedo and smug efficiency. "Drinks?"
"A bottle of your finest sangria." The word felt heavy with the weight of his own manuscript's title. He gestured to the menu the waiter held against his tuxedo suit. "Are you hungry? Order anything—it's on me."
Lemony's eyes narrowed, his fingers strangling the tie. "I'm not staying long. I need your notes. The last thing I want to do is become a character in one of your tragicomic manuscripts."
"Oh yes, that story about the three orphans losing their parents in a fire. Sounds like a bummer."
Lemony's face tightened, eyes glistening like wet ink. "The story I gave you is based on true events. I was devastated by the fire. I lost Beatrice. I was madly in love with her."
The name hit like a slap. Beatrice—not his Lolita, his lighthouse, but another woman lost to someone else's story. "Why didn't you marry her?"
"She chose Bertrand," Lemony said, voice barely above a whisper. "He was… everything I wasn't."
"And she chose... Bertrand? Was he at least hot, or did he have a better insurance policy?"
The waiter returned with sangria, breaking the tension. Merlot savoured the first sip.
Lemony stood, chair scraping like a rejected manuscript. "I'm leaving. You think this is a date? I'm not into you—or any guy."
Merlot blinked. The words hung in the air like smoke.
"What's not to like about me? I'm a man of letters. I'm wearing a waistcoat. And I'm paying. Come on, you haven't even tried the sangria. You'll love it just as much as Beatrice loved Bertrand, I promise."
Lemony's jaw clenched. "If I were into men, I'd pick one who doesn't reek of desperation and bad haircuts." He stormed out, the arch door swallowing him like a plot hole.
Merlot sat, the sangria sweating like it knew it was abandoned, too.
The waiter lingered, pity in his eyes, but Merlot just waved for the bill. He left a tip that screamed "starving artist" and shuffled out.
At the bus stop, the metal bench froze his bones. The moon smirked through clouds, panning his disaster of a night.
Thought he'd stay? You're delusional! His inner critic sneered, sounding like every editor who'd ever ghosted him. Merlot gripped his collar, teeth gritted, whispering, Shut up, you unpublished troll. The wind tugged his coat—half-hug, half-taunt—as the bus's hum promised escape from his unwritten life.