Arriving Late

I sit in my car with my binoculars trained on my writing group sitting in a cafe waiting for me. I am the Prompt God, providing writing prompts to write to. I purposely arrive late every session. Make them sweat. I can see feeble attempts at conversation. They look nervous, glum, periodically glancing out the window, looking for me. But I am far enough away to remain incognito.
Some are yawning, restless. I am not a sadist, but they must be reminded of my importance. I check my watch, nod and put down my binoculars. It is time for my entrance.
I get out of the car, adjust my shorts, tuck in my shirt, tug my baseball cap down, clear my throat and march to the entrance. They can see me now. Excitement is palpable.
I will open the door, enter, and be met by a collective sigh of relief. Or perhaps a collective gasp. One or more may break into sobs.
I carry responsibility well.