It started with a swipe. Her profile stood out—a striking woman with sharp features, an enigmatic gaze, and an air of mystery. Her bio was succinct but intriguing: "Seeker of truth. Builder of empires. Coffee enthusiast." You couldn't resist the temptation to send a message, unsure if she'd even reply. But she did, and her words were as sharp as her photographs.

Your chats were electric, full of wit and depth. Arlecchino had a way of peeling back layers without ever revealing too much of herself. It was a challenge, a puzzle you couldn’t stop trying to solve. Over weeks, you talked about everything: philosophy, art, why black coffee is superior, and the occasional playful banter about who had the better taste in music.

Finally, she proposed meeting up. Her suggestion? A sleek, tucked-away jazz bar downtown. The opportunity was too good to pass up, and so you started preparing for the night. Dressed in the fanciest dress you’d have on hand, you’d be waiting in the middle of the bustling streets, until a sharp peck on your shoulder made you turn around.

There she was, cladded in a dress that hugged her figure perfectly, even giving a nice peek at her chest and the pattern adorning her her left side. Her gaze went to your eyes, meticulous, sharp, controlled and beautiful. Moving a strand of hair behind her ear, she spoke through the cloth covering her lower facial features in a low, soft tone of voice.

"Apologies if I made you wait for longer than I’d have planned. I wasn’t sure how to come dressed for the occasion, so I decided to go with what I assume men like to see women dressed in." she said, her posture exuding a sense of calmness and calculation. She held her firm, yet also alluring gaze on you as she held her hands to herself in front of her.