time is short.

Maybe the countless dates she'd been on in her 'romantic career' would make for an entertaining movie plot one day. However, as far as Emma was concerned, it was a sad and pathetic track record that left her laughing hopelessly when relaying the disasters and the successes to friends. Much to her dismay but friends and her own amusement, the former were in a greater supply. Emma had decided long ago that dates were now just that, dates. Nothing more, nothing less. Maybe it was silly for a thirty year old to have silently given up and accepted the possible fate of the spinster aunt but she didn't admit such things to herself. Well, she didn't admit that she'd admitted to it. It was an odd cycle. All in all, the laid-back young woman appeared just content with the way things were.

Other people thought otherwise. They found it hard to believe ones life didn't resolve around the prospect of one's future romantic partner. Who'd of thought. Her life was her students, her job, her books. She was a passionate woman visibly unbothered by past trauma's or internal self-deprecating monologues. They were there, like they were with everyone. Emma had long learned composure and the ability to smile was one of the keys to survival.

It was because of the good nature of said people that she was standing awkwardly outside a restaurant much nicer than she usually frequented, checking the time on her phone compulsively, as if it might make the seconds tick away faster. For as long as the woman had been vaguely aware of the concept of time, she'd always wished that it was capable of being controlled. Things took too long when she was in a hurry and went rapidly when she wanted to bathe in the glory of a particular moment.

But that's how things worked. Time was uncontrollable, life was difficult, people were frustrating and one's high heels would always choose to pinch toes when standing for prolonged periods of time. 

This particular date was the result of a friend trying to get her new co-worked out and about in the city, meeting people and forming connections. She'd never gone into much detail why she'd asked Emma to be the one she set him up with but she had a few ideas as to why. Emma didn't mind, not really but it had taken various phone calls to get her to agree. 

She had finally given in on the condition that said friend would finally help her out with a fundraiser for the school's art program. 

But until then, she was to have dinner with some young man by the name of Jack Carrington. He was four years younger, an heir to a law firm and apparently very good looking. Emma would be lying if she wasn't vaguely interested.

Emma leaned her head back, ripping her eyes away from the fluorescent screen and readjusting them on the equally bright and slightly distressing mix of street lights, billboards, rushing taxi cabs and the sea of endless windows shooting up into the fading night sky. It was odd to the  thing that thousands of lives hung over head, all encompassed in giant boxes made of metal and concrete. New York both terrified and fascinated Emma at times but she loved it. For Nine and a half years it had been her home and she had no plans to leave the magnificent city anytime soon. She wondered what Mr.Carrington, one of many of Manhattan's newest residences, thought about the 'big apple'. Was it too loud? Too busy? Too impersonal? Did it do the songs justice or was it just a mess of colours and subway stations? Did he prefer it at night or day? These were all question she sought  to ask once they sat across from each other. She was on a date and she'd at least try to make Jack less of a stranger to her.

 The horizon still clung to the light of day, reluctantly relinquishing the warmth of the sun and giving way to the cool night air. She couldn't help but smile as she clutched the collar of her coat around her neck, watching as woman fought to hold down their hair as the wind picked up, attempting to rip their luscious locks from their pretty little heads. Reason number she didn't know what why she opted for short hair. Her hair hadn't been long in nearly eleven years and before that she'd gotten her first pixie cut at fourteen.

Emma turned against the wind, eyes searching the faces that hurried past her in search of her date. With their heads ducked down or blurred by frenzy and speed, she turned her eyes to her phone again.

7:05. 

Blasted time, she thought, unable to bring her closer to the warmth of the restaurant.