Eight-ish—

That gently elastic hour
     between your ETA
     and the universe’s punchline.

Clock says 7:59—
      my pint half empty,
         optimism half full.

Any minute now,
    you’ll stroll in casual,
        smile tossed easily,
     as if punctuality were
             merely a rumor
             spread by accountants.

Doug’s pacing—
       he’s seen me glance at the door
       one too many times.

Griff’s side-eye says it all,
        probably thinks I’m nuts.

Jake’s mid-lecture on tennis,
       pretending not to notice
       my leg jittering Morse code

       for "Where the hell is she?"

Eight-fifteen—
      I’ve mentally typed out
      three texts, deleted four.
      Thought better of a fifth.

      Sent zero.

Eight-thirty—
      Doug slides over a beer
               I didn’t order,
      mutters something about
     "patience being rewarded."

   I down it, silently cursing
     how damn well he knows me.

Eight-forty-five—
      The door swings open…
      just some guy looking lost,

      clearly not the face my eyes have been craving.

Eight-fifty-nine—
      You slip in quietly,
      smile conspiratorial,

      eyebrows arched just enough to say: "See, right on time."

I shake my head,
  laugh at the clock,
  kiss your cheek softly—

Right on time?

Nah—

Perfectly eight-ish.