Almost nine—
   she said she's coming,
   and I'm perched…

   balanced precariously between calm and total madness.

I glance at my phone
every three seconds—
       just in case.

A text,
   a call,
   a pigeon with a wee scroll,
   flying through Irby's door—

   I'll take anything.

My pulse is racing,
     foot stomping,
    brain spinning,

   like I'm waiting for a plot twist I know is coming…
                                    but can't predict.

She's a promise
   just minutes away,
   and yet every second
   drags itself across the floor—

   testing my patience,
   laughing at my restraint.

One more glance at the clock—
           still almost nine.

I've rearranged lifetimes,
   alphabetized anxieties,
   even calculated: How many breaths fit into a minute?

   spoiler alert: way too many.

If anticipation were a sport,
   I'd be winning gold.

Or losing spectacularly.

Either way,
   she better hurry—

   before I completely fall off the edge of this seat.

And just like that...
   *Ding!*