The Expert

"Yes, I'll come. I'll be there at 7:30." You could tell she was smiling when she said it. And maybe she meant it at the time. But when 7:58 came around and I was still sitting there, waiting, I couldn't help but begin to question. I had been betrayed, or let down rather, before.
I was taking notes on the pad of paper that I always carry, writing down some ideas for a new TV program my company was working on, when someone sat down at my table and reached for the water glass. I looked up, expecting her to be there, grinning and apologetic, and I was prepared to forget the whole thing and go on with the evening, but it wasn't her. It was the Expert.
He was not impressed with me. In fact, he gave a small snort when I looked at him, as if to say, "Look at yourself: what else do you expect?"
"Oh, it's you. What are you doing here?"
"I'm enjoying a glass of water."
"Well, could you do it somewhere else? I'm expecting company."
"Of course you are. What else would you be doing on a Friday night? Expecting company, not enjoying it. You are a thoroughly uninteresting person. It's no wonder you're only expecting company." His gaze was the most insolent thing I'd seen all week. "But it doesn't have to be that way."
"What? Are you selling something? Piss off."
"She's not going to come."
"And how do you know that?"
The Expert looked so very clever just then, like a ten-year-old boy who has just done the most brilliant mischief and is waiting for you to find it. He crunched on a bit of ice, then leaned forward and whispered: "Because I have her tied up in my trunk!"
"No, really, piss off!" He was really making me angry.
"You don't believe me? Well, you'll find out." He took a sip of water, then leaned forward again. "No, I'm just kidding. It's just a joke, you know. Look: here she comes now."
I looked, but no one was there.
"See? I told you, it's a joke!" He laughed a little too hard.