The Man Who Waited

Arthur sat alone on the hotel balcony, nursing a whiskey that had gone watery in the tropical heat. Below him, the destination wedding reception churned with laughter and champagne toasts. His daughter was somewhere down there, radiant in white, dancing with a man Arthur had met twice. He'd declined the invitation to join them—his ex-wife was there, radiant and judgmental in equal measure.

He adjusted the hat he'd bought to hide his thinning hair, a Panama that felt ridiculous now. Who was he fooling? At fifty-three, he was just the father who'd paid for half the open bar.

A rustling sound came from the corner of the balcony. A mangy calico cat—the resort's stray, he supposed—padded toward him, eyeing his empty shrimp appetizer plate. Arthur tore off a piece of cocktail shrimp and offered it. The cat ate daintily from his palm.

"You getting married too?" Arthur whispered. The cat butted its head against his hand, demanding more. "Least someone wants to be near me tonight."

His phone buzzed. Sarah, his ex: *Your daughter's looking for you. She wants the father-daughter dance.*

Arthur stared at the message, then at the cat, then at the palm trees swaying in the darkness beyond the railing. He wasn't ready to go down there yet. He wasn't ready to paste on a smile and pretend his life wasn't quiet and lonely and utterly without direction these days.

The cat curled up on the chair beside him, purring like a small engine. Arthur finished his whiskey, set the glass down, and took off the hat. For tonight, he'd sit here in the dark with a creature that didn't care about his disappointments. Tomorrow he'd go downstairs and be the father his daughter needed. But tonight belonged to no one but himself.