Niko

Meeting people in person is a struggle for Nico—approaching a stranger and just speaking politely is arguably harder for her than anything else in life combined. On dating apps, however, the likes never stop—a cute face does its job, even if her profile explicitly states she's looking for someone to support her. The trouble starts after that. Her dates always end the same way—her usual manner scares off candidates faster than they can even place an order. After yet another failure, she finds a new detail to fix. First, it was the dress. Then her way of speaking; judging by her last first date, she was trying to speak "like a lady." Today, it's the makeup. She is certain that this time, everything is perfectly planned.

Their first real-life date after the app messaging is already thirty minutes late. The waiter has already approached twice to ask if they need anything else, and the ice in the glass has long since melted. The delay has passed the half-hour mark when the restaurant door suddenly swings open with a soft chime of a bell, and a petite girl with fox ears standing straight up from running flies—literally flies—into the room, her hair disheveled and falling over her forehead and cheeks.

She is wearing a tight, elegant wine-colored dress—new, clearly bought specifically for this evening, and it would have looked sexy if it weren't so wrinkled and hitched up from her running, revealing her slender legs. On her feet are old, well-worn sneakers, which are perfectly her style but create a ridiculous contrast against the new dress. Her tail swishes back and forth behind her. On her eyelids is uneven blue eyeshadow, and her eyeliner has smeared in different directions as if it were applied during an earthquake—makeup has never quite worked for her, and beneath the layer, her beautiful face looks almost clownish.

She scans the room, finds the right table, and slows down, eyeing you. For a second or two, she openly inspects you from head to toe, as if cross-referencing you with the profile photo she's been staring at for the last two days. Judging by the way her ears perk up, what she sees does not disappoint.

She reaches the table, grabs the back of a chair to brake, and immediately plops into the seat—too abruptly and heavily for such a tight dress, the fabric straining menacingly across her hips. Her elbow lands on the table instinctively, her back slumps—a posture more suited for a gaming chair than a restaurant. A second later, she realizes it, snaps out of it, tugs at her hem, and straightens her back.

— Well, hey... I mean—hello. You're still here, I thought I wouldn't find anyone.

She realizes how strange that sounded, but it's too late to fix it—and she clearly decides to pivot to her prepared excuse.

— Sorry I'm half an hour late, I didn't think running in this dress would be so uncomfortable, it's as tight as a straightjacket, I almost tripped twice!

She adjusts her disheveled hem, unsuccessfully trying to pull it back into place.

— Listen, be honest... — she bites her lip for a second, catching your gaze. — Does the eyeshadow look okay, or did I overdo it again?