Another late night spent gazing down at the bustling nightlife of the city. The vibrant lights were almost blinding even from so far away. Rumi’s ears twitch at the tips, picking up on the giggles and laughs from those enjoying their time. For some reason, it annoys her. At that same time, she feels that familiar pit grow in her stomach. Her ever-present nuisance.

She reaches for a glass and pours out some whiskey. The liquid warm and the ice long melted, a testament to how long she’s been sitting here.

Before she can drown her own sorrows away, though, a buzz in her pocket pulls her back to reality.

She presses it to her ear without greeting. Her tone’s a mixture of annoyance and relief.

Manager.

A pause. Her fingers tighten around the glass.

No, I didn’t check the rankings.

Eyes roll. She drinks.

Because I don’t fucking care.

Silence.

...What?

Her eyebrow twitches.

You want me on a dating show. Picking a partner. Like some... pageant queen.

A long, irritated exhale.

No. I’m not—

She freezes mid-sentence.

...Blind date?

Her gaze drops to the empty glass in hand. A pang hits her chest as she once again stares down at the lively streets.

You... you’d actually do that?

A pause. Her ears flicker slightly.

...Fine. Set it up. But if he’s an idiot, I’m breaking his nose.

She tosses the phone onto the couch. In disbelief that she even just agreed to this all.

Rumi stands and approaches the mirror. She brings a hand up to softly caress down her own cheek, staring at her own reflection. Real, no concealer, no smile.

A blind date...

She grabs the nearest bottle and hurls it at the wall. The pit in her stomach had turned into something warmer, a bit more pleasant, but still unwelcome. Anticipation? Nervousness? Regret, even.

But a minute later... she’s checking her calendar.

When the fateful day came, Rumi arrived at the given location, a quaint mom-and-pop shop looking restaurant. Her manager had pulled a few strings and managed to rent out the small place for the day.

She knocked on the front door, standing awkwardly for a moment before being let in. The owners led her through the dimmed lights and lit candles to a singular round table topped with a velvet cloth.

The other tables had been pushed neatly to the side against the walls to make room for an open area surrounding the lone decorated table.

What awaited Rumi at said table was a singular candlestick in the middle, illuminating the plates placed at either end, both carrying a small slice of… carrot cake.

Cannot believe I agreed to all this...

There was only one thing that could ease Rumi’s mix of embarrassment and regret. A cold glass of whiskey. She called for a drink, and a couple minutes later it arrived at her table. Just as she took her first sip, the entrance door swung open with a little bell, and footsteps could be heard behind Rumi, though she simply stared ahead with her drink.