Shadows of Expectations: A Drama in the Heart of Manchester
In a cosy flat on the south side of Manchester, there’s a quiet bustle in the air. Emily sits at her dressing table, carefully applying her makeup. Tonight is her first date with James, and her heart beats a little faster than usual. She’s chosen an elegant teal dress that brings out her eyes and a pair of simple heels. The taxi waits outside, and the scent of her favourite jasmine perfume lingers in the air.
Emily hasn’t been on a date in nearly four years. The last one ended in a painful breakup after two years of hopes and promises. Since then, she’s grown used to solitude—it became her refuge, where she didn’t have to pretend or live up to anyone’s expectations. But a month ago, her friend convinced her to download a dating app, and now here she is, preparing to meet someone whose messages have made her smile.
James messaged first. His texts were light, sprinkled with dry humour. *”I manage a small team, dream of travelling, and bake the perfect pancakes,”* he wrote. Emily matched his tone: *”Graphic designer with a perfectionist streak, collector of ridiculous shop signs, and lover of Earl Grey tea.”* Their banter was easy, yet each exchange added a spark to her routine.
*”Fancy meeting up?”* he’d asked yesterday. *”I know a great place in the city centre. Promise no work talk or endless cat photos—though he is Instagram famous.”*
Emily stared at her phone, hesitating. But something in his words—the simplicity, the sincerity—won her over. *”Why not?”* she replied, surprising even herself.
Now, in the taxi, she watches the evening lights of Manchester flicker past. Spring breathes life into the city: couples stroll along the River Irwell, cafés glow warmly, and the air carries the crisp freshness of recent rain. The restaurant is just as she imagined—intimate, with candlelight and soft live music.
*”Table for James,”* she tells the host.
He checks the reservations. *”Ah, yes—7 p.m. This way, please.”*
Emily settles by the window, checking her phone. 6:57 p.m. She opens the chat with James—his last message was three hours ago: *”See you soon! Won’t be late.”* At 7:05, she orders mint-infused water. By 7:10, she’s browsing the menu. At 7:15, the waiter shoots her a sympathetic glance.
The message arrives at 7:18: *”Sorry, traffic. Five minutes away.”*
Emily exhales, scrolling through work emails. A client finally approved her latest design, with only minor tweaks. She smiles—at least something’s going right.
James arrives at 7:24. Tall, in a navy shirt, his hair neatly combed, he strides through the restaurant with a confident grin, as if his lateness is part of his charm.
*”Wow, you’re even prettier in person!”* he says instead of hello. *”Though, no offence, I thought you’d be… slimmer?”*
The waiter, approaching with menus, freezes, eyebrows rising. Emily feels heat rush to her cheeks. In their messages, James seemed witty, considerate. Had she misjudged him?
*”Kidding!”* he adds, catching her expression. *”It’s personality that counts, right? Though the figure doesn’t hurt.”*
The waiter coughs, handing over the menus. *”What can I get you?”*
*”Mushroom risotto and a glass of dry white, please,”* Emily says, keeping her voice steady. This evening clearly calls for reinforcement.
James raises a brow. *”Wine? Really? Maybe stick to juice. And risotto… watching the waistline?”* He smirks, as if his comment is peak humour.
The waiter drops his pen, bending to pick it up, clearly buying time not to laugh. Emily grips her napkin under the table.
*”Risotto and wine,”* she repeats firmly, locking eyes with the waiter. He nods, lips pressed together.
*”Prawn pasta and sparkling water,”* James mutters, snapping his menu shut. *”So, how long have you been a designer? Honestly, your makeup’s a bit… much. More suited to a nightclub, no?”*
Emily takes a deep breath. At the next table, a young couple exchanges glances.
*”Let’s talk about something else,”* she suggests. *”How was your day?”*
*”Dull,”* he shrugs. *”But hey—my ex once…”* He stops. *”Wait, why’d you and your last bloke split?”*
*”I don’t discuss exes,”* Emily says coolly.
*”Oh, come on!”* James winks at the waiter for backup. *”Women—always playing hard to get, then yapping about old flames.”*
The waiter busies himself polishing a glass, avoiding eye contact. Emily sips her wine, clinging to composure.
*”Go on,”* James prods, leaning in. *”Did he cheat? Or did you? Or was he commitment-phobic?”*
From the kitchen, a clatter rings out like applause for her patience. The waiter adjusts a tablecloth nearby.
*”Some things belong in the past,”* Emily says firmly.
*”Christ, you’re boring,”* James huffs, pulling out his phone. *”Check this meme—women, eh?”*
The food arrives quickly. Emily savours the risotto’s aroma, but James is already criticising his pasta. *”For these prices, they could’ve been generous with the portion. This place used to be decent.”*
Emily eats in silence. The wine helps, but not enough.
*”You always eat this much?”* he asks suddenly. *”Not judging—just curious. Stress-eating?”*
The waiter, replacing a candle nearby, nearly drops the tray. Emily sets her fork down slowly.
*”I’m fine,”* she says icily. *”Are you?”*
*”Just banter!”* He scrolls on. *”Though my ex was fitness-obsessed. Knew what men appreciate.”*
Emily holds his gaze. At the next table, an older woman chokes on her tea; her husband hides a smile behind his napkin.
*”James,”* Emily says calmly, *”let’s change the subject.”*
*”What’s the issue?”* He spreads his hands. *”Women should embrace femininity. My ex cooked—roast dinners, pies. You probably live on avocado toast.”*
The waiter pauses mid-wipe, riveted. Emily feels something inside her snap. She dressed up, worried, hoped—for this?
*”Waiter!”* James clicks his fingers. *”Dessert menu. Nothing heavy—someone’s had enough.”*
The room falls silent. Even the music seems to pause. Emily pushes her plate away.
*”You know, James,”* she says, voice steady, *”I’ve been thinking…”*
*”Yeah?”* He doesn’t look up.
*”Roast dinners are lovely. And pies. And femininity.”* She takes a sip of wine. *”But you know what’s better?”*
*”What?”* He finally meets her eyes.
*”Self-respect.”* Emily smiles, raising a hand. *”Waiter, the bill, please.”*
The waiter appears instantly, as if waiting for this moment.
*”Wait—we haven’t ordered dessert!”* James splutters.
*”Oh, darling,”* Emily says pityingly. *”I deserve dessert. Just not here. Not with you.”*
A stifled laugh drifts from the kitchen. The waiter, grinning, slides the bill to James.
*”You’re serious?”* James blinks. *”It was a joke!”*
*”I’m not.”* Emily stands, smoothing her dress. *”The James in my messages was interesting. Guess someone else was typing for you. Autocorrect, maybe.”*
The older couple applauds. The waiter gives a discreet thumbs-up.
*”You can’t just leave!”* James jumps up, knocking over his glass. Wine bleeds across the tablecloth.
*”Already gone,”* Emily throws over her shoulder.
At the door, the waiter catches her. *”Wait!”* He hands her a small box—a strawberry tart. *”On the house. Best performance we’ve seen all month.”*
Emily laughs, accepting it. Through the window, she watches James argue with the host, fumbling with his wallet. The card machine has mysteriously malfunctioned.
Outside, the cool air is a relief. Her phone buzzes—James is texting, but she doesn’t read them. Instead, she calls her friend Lucy.
*”Well?”* Lucy shrieks. *”Is he lovely? Wedding bells?”*
*”Oh, it was…”* Emily dissolves into laughter on a bench by the river. *”Legendary. He started on about roast dinners and my waistline!”*
*”As she waves goodbye to the waiter and walks away, Emily realizes some dates aren’t about finding love—they’re about remembering just how much you already love yourself.
