Waiting for the Wind, Waiting for You

“You’re half an hour late to every date, and you always take me to that same dump. What do you take me for?” I slammed my cup onto the table. He lowered his head and wiped his apron. “I’m sorry... Let me make you another bowl of noodles.” I sneered. “Make noodles? Is making me wait all you know how to do?” As I turned and walked away, I didn’t see his trembling hands. Three years later, I returned to that restaurant with my fiancé. The noodles tasted bitter with salt. The owner’s eyes reddened. “That foolish kid used to come two hours early every day to knead the dough himself, just so you’d see the steam rising when you took your first bite...” I rushed into the kitchen. The cutting board was covered with carvings: “I’m sorry. I’ll be early next time, I promise.” The dates stopped on the day I broke up with him.