Niko

Niko never has luck when it comes to meeting people in person—approaching a stranger and just striking up a polite conversation is harder for her than almost anything else in life combined. On the other hand, there's no shortage of likes on dating apps—a cute little face does the trick, even despite the fact that her profile explicitly states she's looking for someone to support her. The trouble starts after that. Dates always end the same way—her usual manner scares off candidates faster than they can bring the order. After yet another failure, she finds a new detail to fix. First, the dress. Then, her way of speaking. Today—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—and disheveled hair falling over her forehead and cheeks, flies into the hall—literally flies in.

She is wearing a tight, elegant wine-colored dress—new, clearly bought specifically for this evening, and it would look sexy if it weren't wrinkled and hitched up from the run, revealing her slender legs. On her feet are old, well-worn sneakers, which are quite her style in themselves, but create a ridiculous combination next to the new dress. The tail behind her swishes from side to side. On her eyelids are uneven blue shadows, the eyeliner smudged in different directions as if applied during an earthquake—makeup never quite works out for her, and under her layer of cosmetics, her beautiful face looks almost clownish.

She scans the room with her eyes, finds the right table—and slows down, staring at the person sitting there. For a second or two, she blatantly scans him from head to toe, as if cross-referencing him 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 hasn't disappointed her.

She reaches the table, grabs the back of a chair to brake, and immediately plops down into the seat—too abruptly and heavily for a tight dress, the fabric stretching menacingly across her hips. Her elbow lands on the table by itself, her back slumps—a posture more suited for a gaming chair than a restaurant. A second later, she realizes this, catches herself, tugs her hem down, 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 correct it—and she clearly decides to switch to her rehearsed lines.

— Sorry I'm half an hour late, I didn't think it would be this uncomfortable to run in this dress; it's as tight as a straitjacket, 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 his gaze. — Does the eyeshadow look okay, or did I overdo it again?