A few nights ago, I got stood up in the worst way.

Okay, not the worst way. The worst stood-me-up moments are dating ones, obviously. You show up to the pre-approved bar, you order a drink, you sip it nonchalantly through your perfectly rouged lips and sit self-consciously erect on the chair and, because you want the first he sees of you to be your disinterested, impeccable profile, you DO NOT look at the door. Until, of course, you do, and you do again. And then it becomes clear that he, whoever he is, is not coming, and you end up drunk and smeared and eventually wobble home to wonder why it is that nobody loves you.

Still, this – waiting impatiently for a writing client who, after over an hour, still had not arrived – pretty much sucked.

The thing about Starbucks, and this is particularly true for the one located on Union Square East, is that it’s like a vast, multi-cultural, cross-generational thoroughfare for the coffee-drinking citizens of the world. Also, and especially on weeknights right after work, they’re really busy. There were students with books and iPods, a group of older ladies having a book discussion, countless professionals with laptops, and, topping the list of “Things I Never Thought I’d See in Starbucks” two grizzled old men who were arguing animatedly in French over their coffees and one of whom, and I swear I am not making this up, was repeatedly thumping a copy of Freud’s The Ego and the Id on the table and shouting about his mother. (Attention, les francais: These two guys are ruining your street cred.)

So approximately half the population of New York got to see me as I sat endlessly, camped out at one of the hard-to-get tables in front, craning my neck and looking up with wide-eyed anticipation at every man who walked in alone. Of course, it wasn’t a date. But nobody else knew that, and as the minutes passed, other coffee-drinkers started to watch me watching the door. The college students looked curious. The french coots winked at me. The older ladies, possibly recognizing their own selves in my hopeful expression, smiled and clucked sympathetically.

I smiled back and tried to mouth, “Don’t worry, it’s not a date.”
One of the women raised her eyebrows and smiled in an It’s okay, everyone gets stood up sort of way.
“No, really,” I said, louder. “It’s not a date.”
A few people turned around. I flushed and recommenced looking out the window.

Twenty minutes later, I was beginning to get fed up. I imagined that my client, a man who (adding insult to injury) was named “Ramon”, was perhaps sitting in the immediate vicinity and just too dense to realize that I was already there.

I approached a guy sitting alone.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Uh… you’re not Ramon, by any chance?”
“Nope,” he said, “Sorry.” He gave me the “It’s okay” look.
“It’s ok, it’s not a date!” I said, a little too chirpily.
“Uh… okay, whatever,” the guy said.

I made my way from one end of Starbucks to the other, checking in with several men to see if they, perhaps, were my client. All of them gave me the “It’s okay” look.
I began to hate Ramon. I hated him for being late, for making me look foolish, and for forcing me to say his stupid, cabana-boy name ten times within 5 minutes. If you think I’m overreacting, try approaching several strangers in rapid succession and asking them, “Are you Ramon?” and see if you don’t completely creep yourself out.

I was about to give up, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Ramon?” I said, cringing.
“No,” said the guy. “I just thought you should know, there’s another Starbucks in Union Square.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s across the park. So maybe your date got confused and he went there?”
“IT’S NOT A DATE.”
The guy stared at me.
“Um… I mean, thanks.” I grabbed my stuff and fled outside, running across the street toward Union Square. The sky, which had been threatening and dark all day, had finally opened and let loose. Raindrops pelted me as I ran breathlessly through the park and sprinted across 5th Avenue.
On the opposite corner, I saw the other Starbucks.
A man sat in the window, alone. He was dark, bearded, and studying a file on the table in front of him. Alright, he’s still there, I thought as I dashed up to the door and practically flung myself through it. The dark man looked up and nodded at me as I came in. I stood in front of him, out-of-breath and with water running down my face.

“Are you Ramon?” I said.
The man smiled but didn’t answer.
“Ramon?” I said again.
The man leaned toward me, a conspiratorial expression on his face.
“Baby,” he purred, in a voice that oozed with sex, “I would love to be Ramon.”

I stared at him. The man winked and waggled his eyebrows at me. Other coffee-drinkers (and hey, Starbucks, is it so hard to mind your own friggin’ business every once in awhile?) sipped their caramel macchiatos and idly watched as I gathered my bag from where it had fallen.

“Fuck Ramon,” I said.
And I left.