Tinder Tinder, Chicken Dinner
Ā Ā Oh God, why was Scotty doing this? He had no idea. One minute he was fine just going about his business on the Surface, avoiding contact with other people, researching life above the mountain and different sciences; the next, heās sitting here waiting at a table, his best suit on, a faint purple spread over his cheekbones. His SOUL is beating deep in his chest, fluttering and anxious - it chatters like a bird in its flock, nervously chirping and ruffled in its feathers of ectoplasmic flesh - and he honestly doesnāt know what heās going to do. He came 50 minutes before the date was supposed to start. Itās only been about 5 since he was seated, and his mind is already starting to run wild.
Ā Ā Ā What if he doesnāt look like his picture? Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Am I being played?
Ā Hopefully he likes me... Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Does my suit look alright?
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā What do I say when he comes? Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Gee wilikers, Iām scared.
Ā Ā Scotty shifts in his seat, sweat beading on the side of his head, thumbs fiddling with each other under the table like inexperienced middle-school lovers dancing across the gym floor. The skin around the holes in his palms gets so clammy he can swear heās holding bits of the sea, salt water drips, please, let him swim with the fishes, heās so tense he could die!
Ā Ā He quickly wipes his hands on his pants so theyāre nice and clean again (who knows when his date could walk through the door?). Please, let this go well - even if he doesnāt show up, hell, at least disappointment is better than being a highly-strung mess! He occupies himself with his own thoughts, stares down at the table absently, then looks up at the door when he hears a bell to see a face strikingly similar to the one from the profile.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Oh God.
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