One delay—
    a gentle fifteen-minute tease,
    just enough to switch terminals

    from the dread of C to easy-going A.

Security—
        a breeze.
        Gate found, eyes scanned,
        "Tapas Cantina" claims me,

        Deep Ellum IPA whispers encouragement from its aluminum home.

Twenty texts later, we board.
       Yeti in hand, Group 3 pride,
       seat 8F my throne,
       playlist spinning us closer—
       then, that thunderous crackle:

"I'm sorry…"

The rest—
    lost in muffled disbelief,
    circles above Atlanta skies,
    storms stubbornly in the way,
    fuel dipping low,
    pit stop in Greenville—

    taxiing while aisle wanderers leisurely stretch legs and FAA rules.

Three hours later,
      ATL welcomes me with weary eyes,
      baggage carousel laughing in circles,
      suitcase procrastinating,
      MARTA speeding me downtown,
      Westin substituting Sylvan charm—

      hurried check-in, barely breathing.

Irby's at 10:25.
     I tell you: "I'll be there 10:30."
     Your prayer emoji—

     last known whereabouts.

Here I am,
     beer cooling fingertips,
     strangers' conversations blurred into white noise,
     my heartbeat timing the taps on glass,
     eyes glued to the door,

     ears tuned for the faintest hint of a familiar ding.

All day, I've hurried—
    now stuck in slow-motion,
    seconds stretching,
    anticipation boiling softly,

    every silent minute louder than thunder.

The wait—
    unbearable and perfect,
    each heartbeat closer
    to the moment you'll walk in,
    your smile rewriting the night,

    every delay, instantly forgiven.

This night,
     no matter how it started,
                 begins again—

     the moment you walk through that door.