by Cari Oleskewicz
Jon is no doubt wandering Egmont Park, wondering if he got a detail wrong. He is looking for me, anxious perhaps that I am late, but certain I will show. I am a good person, he trusts that. He believes he knows me after a week of chatting online. He trusts that I will be where I said I would be.
As we made plans and set the date, he said he liked the way my brain worked. He told me about his French bulldog, Rudy, with the red harness. That’s how you’ll know it’s me, he said. You’ll see me with Rudy and his red harness.
He is surely there by now, with the bottle of red wine he brought as a “mid-afternoon refreshment.” He sent me a picture of the bottle, with a link to the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, so I’d know what I was drinking.
Jon is likely a great boyfriend. Or at least a good date. He is tall. I would have worn my boots with a heel, the ones I found in a secondhand shop in Stockholm. He has dark hair. Kind eyes. He lives in Brussels but has a storage unit in Huntington Beach, California, just an hour away from where I hold onto a dilapidated cottage with a sprawling porch.
Is there a dog fight, while Jon waits with Rudy? Are two little dogs barking and growling in pursuit of the same squeaky toy? It is warm in the sun, surely, but cool in the shade. A sweater is necessary.
I am not there.
And I wonder how long he will give me. How long will Jon wait before he realizes I am not coming?
I was never going to keep the date, Jon. Maybe you are wondering about this now, fifteen minutes after we were meant to meet.
I am not proud of this, if it hurts you. Mais, il est. But, it is. You have Rudy to comfort you. To make you laugh. I want you to forget we even chatted. Pretend you never liked me. I have already forgotten you. In the park. With the red wine. Waiting.
It was meant to rain today.
You assured me that in Belgium, no one is bothered by the weather. We would never cancel a walk in the park because of rain.
And look at how the sun shines. It is a perfect day. A perfect day not to meet.
The things I have enjoyed in Brussels: The Molenbeek neighborhood and its rich immigrant culture. The Magritte museum and my joke: ce n’est pas un musée. Hosting LeAnn, even though she drained me of my time and energy.
I ghosted LeAnne once, too. In a way much worse than the carelessness with which I now drop my date with Jon. LeAnne did not move on. She did not forget me. She kept coming back. And back. And back. She admitted to stalking me, and that’s how she found me in Stockholm. I felt that allowing her to stay with me in Brussels was some sort of penance that I had to complete. To make things right, karmically. I bought her dinners. I let her use my toothpaste. We were roommates for a handful of days and I resented my own generosity.
With you, Jon, I resent my own hope.
I exchanged words with you and I allowed myself to be thrilled with all the places you have lived. Lisbon. Vienna. Paris, for fuck’s sakes. I let myself think this might be suitable, this date. We might be a match. But here it is, Sunday afternoon, and the old doubts and demons have kicked in and I will not be going to the park, Jon, and I will not be answering any of your messages asking if everything is alright.
You remind me, now, of all the others. And I cannot take you seriously. And I cannot trust myself. And I cannot meet you in Egmont Park, nor can I drink the wine you brought.
I cannot bend to pet Rudy, in his easy-to-spot red harness.
Cari Oleskewicz is an American writer wandering around Europe. Her chapbook “Ocala” won the 2025 YellowJacket Press Poetry Competition, and her work has recently appeared in Thimble Literary Magazine, Mom Egg Review, Judith Magazine, The Fourth River, Lime Hawk Review, and Taos Journal of Poetry. She is currently at work on a memoir.
Photo by Abhishek Navlakha : https://www.pexels.com/photo/french-bulldog-walking-outdoors-with-owner-32442916/
