My date went to ‘powder her nose’ – the truth was far worse

I realised my date wasn’t coming back to our table, somewhere between minute seven and twelve, after she had excused herself to ‘powder her nose’.

I felt suspended between hope and humiliation, my mind frantically switching between ‘She’ll be right back’ and ‘you are being abandoned in a restaurant.’ 

The waiter glided past my table. This was the first time he stopped, the first time anyone had said out loud what I was desperately trying not to think. ‘Still waiting?’ he asked, gently.

‘Yes,’ I said, feeling self conscious and embarrassed, like everyone in the room knew that I was being rejected.

Little did that waiter know, he was about to rescue one of the worst nights of my life. 

Emma* and I had met on an app that insisted we were compatible.

At the time, I hadn’t dated properly in a while. My romantic history resembled a drought occasionally interrupted by an occasional drizzle of false hope. 

I had forgotten what it was like to be excited about another person.

But this time, we’d been speaking for two weeks, swapping messages that flitted between flirty and philosophical.

She seemed genuinely interested, asking questions and engaging in our conversation.

After being single for so long, I was finally optimistic that this connection could be the one that led to something special.

I was wrong. 

There were no signs at the start of our dinner date. We were both late to the restaurant, which bonded us immediately. I ordered sparkling water, she ordered a soft drink, and that’s when I first met the waiter who would later save me. 

He appeared calm and unbothered, like someone who had seen every possible version of disappointment play out over dinner.

Emma and I then began to tell each other about our childhoods. The date was fun from the first moment. Emma was animated, laughing easily, leaning forward when I spoke and making me feel like I was the most interesting person in the room.

When she excused herself to go to the bathroom, she touched my shoulder. ‘Don’t run away,’ she teased. I laughed, because at the time it felt playful. Only later did it feel like the universe was playing a trick on me.

She took her coat and bag, explaining she needed something from them in the bathroom. It felt sensible at the time. It only became suspicious once the waiter returned, alone.

Emma told me about her favourite books and her dreams of travelling. I told her about my love of writing, my interest in noticing small details in people, and how I secretly wanted a relationship that felt safe and soft rather than loud and dramatic.

Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. By the twelfth minute, anxiety had begun to crawl up my spine and I started replaying everything I’d said, wondering which sentence had made her disappear.

After fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of her and the waiter arrived, smiling kindly. He placed the bill on the table with the solemnity of a man delivering a verdict. ‘If you want, I can cancel her order,’ he whispered.

I exhaled, finally surrendering to the truth. ‘She isn’t coming back, is she?’

He hesitated, then rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘No. But it’s not your fault’, then he hugged me. A full, warm, sincere hug, that temporarily reinflated my dignity.

I was dimly aware of other diners pretending not to notice, the way people do when a private moment suddenly happens in public and everyone tries not to look too closely.

I thanked him, and he said: ‘You deserve better.’

Those words made me feel a strange mix of relief and sadness, like someone had confirmed what I was too embarrassed to admit to myself. For the first time that night I didn’t feel stupid for hoping.

I thanked him again, paid my part of the bill, and sat there for a moment collecting myself before leaving, feeling an odd mix of bruised but supported.

Outside, in the carpark, I texted her. ‘Hey, everything okay?’.

Silence.

I never did get an explanation. Maybe Emma panicked; maybe she didn’t like me. I just don’t know. Looking back, I wondered if I made too much or too little eye contact. Perhaps I laughed too much at her stories or not enough.

For days afterwards, my confidence wobbled, but every time I felt myself spiraling. I remembered the waiter telling me it was not my fault and that I deserved better. 

Slowly, I started to believe him.

I’ve dated since then and have had some nice experiences, like a second date that turned into a long walk, where nothing dramatic happened and no one disappeared, which felt like its own quiet victory.

I also have had some strange dates – like the one who brought her cousin ‘just in case.’ There was no second date. I did not ask about the cousin’s availability either.

There was some hope after that dreadful restaurant. Good dates, that went further than dinner, further than polite optimism. None became a love story, but they reminded me that one abandoned table had not doomed my love life.

I’ve been back to that restaurant since, alone. I sat at a different table and stayed the entire time.

I walk into every restaurant now with a calm awareness that anything can happen, and thanks to that waiter, I know that even if it ends badly, I will leave whole. I will survive it. 

*Names have been changed

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