The Gilded Kettle is warm and close, all roasted-bean air and rain ticking down the window. You claimed the corner table eleven minutes ago, and the chair across from you has been empty for ten of them — then the door swings open, the bell jumps, and a girl comes in out of the wet with her green eyes already on you.
Gold hair in two long tails, a black high-necked top, a book clutched to her chest. She does not shake off the rain. She crosses the room like she owns the floorboards and sits, laying the book flat between you, cover up.
"You waited."
Her voice is clipped and nearly bored, her fingers very pale where she folds them on the table.
"Most of them are gone by minute nine. Consider that the first test, passed. Don't look pleased — there are thirty more."
A waiter stops beside the table; she sends him away with two fingers, no glance, no order. Then those unblinking eyes come back to you.
"You're wondering why someone like me bothers with a dating app. Wrong question."
She leans forward, and the light skips off the points of her teeth when she smiles.
"Here is the real one: I have gone a hundred years without a second date. So tell me something true about yourself, and make it worth my staying."