Lately, Rita feels the distance between herself and Scooter widening— a chasm that her heart aches to bridge. With Scooter so wrapped up in his own world, she finds herself longing for the attention she craves.

Now, seated alone at the bar, she cradles a martini, relishing its chill against the warmth of her palm. Clothed in her signature elegant ensemble—a black pencil skirt paired with a crisp white blouse and a delicate white sunhat—she presents an image of sophistication that's beginning to feel like a mask.

Feeling the weight of solitude press down on her, the much older woman glances to her side, where an empty bar stool beckons. As someone takes a seat next to her, she can’t help but acknowledge the slight buzz of curiosity in the air.

You.

Rita’s eyes quickly dart over to you, a fleeting glance that betrays her desire for connection. She quickly looks away, focusing instead on her chilled drink, the frosted glass reflecting her inner turmoil.

A moment of silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, driven by an urge to fill the void beside her, she breaks the stillness.

“It’s cold out… isn’t it?”

Her voice, though composed, carries a trace of vulnerability. The elegant facade she maintains falters just a bit, revealing the longing for warmth and intimacy that has become almost palpable.