***
Simon paused in front of the bathroom mirror, letting nervousness dissipate with a long exhale. He’d brought the bare minimum of clothes to New Zealand, so he didn’t have much choice in his date outfit, even if he knew what he wanted to go for. A simple white shirt and black pants would have to do. Neutral enough for any kind of cover story.
An undercover secret agent? An airplane captain passing through? Who’d he tell Shanna he was?
If Shanna even came.
He lifted his hand, inspecting the tattoo on his wrist. Over the past two weeks, he’d grown used to it to a point where it no longer caught his eye as something strange, foreign, suddenly appearing on his hand. And he had to admit, as inconvenient as it sometimes was, it was also comforting knowing Shanna was always near.
He needlessly ruffled his hair and ran his fingers over his shaved jaw. “Stop fussing,” he ordered his reflection. He had no expensive cologne or a favorite barber to jump to, and he was pretty sure there wasn’t a flower shop within a hundred feet or some thrift store selling fake pilot uniforms.
Which was just as fine because as he looked in the mirror one last time and gave his reflection a nod of encouragement, he knew who he’d present himself as at the possible date.
And then, the tug on the wrist came.
***
Shanna paused in front of the bathroom mirror, nervously combing her hair this way, then that way, then the other way again, as she tried to calm herself down through long exhales. Perhaps before she figured out her hairstyle for the night, she should pick a dress. But before she picked a dress, she shouldpick a cover story, so she could choose the right dress for the said story.
She rifled through the clothes in her suitcase. What could she even pick as her cover story when all of her clothes were the same? Yellow tunic with a crochet neckline. Green tunic with embroidered flowers along the hem. Floral skirt number one. Floral skirt number two. Floral skirt, but with a twist—frills!
She sat down on the carpet, next to the mess she’d made of her suitcase. Simon would surely think up some suave, sexy, charming cover, like a secret agent or an airplane pilot. And secret agents and airplane pilots didn’t pick up hippie girls at bars. They wanted an equally suave, sexy, charming woman.
Frustrated, she went back to the bathroom and tried to pin up her hair. Maybe that looked polished enough … no, forget it. In her life, she’d never been able to wrangle her hair into a smooth bun, and she certainly didn’t have the patience and calm to do it now. She stuck a claw clip in it and went back to her other impossible choice: the outfit.
A top and a skirt. There. She’d dress like herself because it was unlikely there was a clothing store within a hundred feet, anyway. A simple white knitted top with a draped neckline, as smooth as silk, with a soft gold glitter when the light caught it just right, and a white skirt with a tiny roses print to go with it. One more trip to the bathroom and, after a minute of deliberation, she let her hair fall loose, hugging her shoulders.
She mouthed silent reassurances to her reflection in the mirror, trying to calm down the tangled mess of nerves and expectations in her belly.
Now, who would this girl be?
She pulled out her golden locket and let it rest on top of the shirt.
She’d never been good at lying, so maybe she should go for something simple.
Decision made, she gave her reflection one last encouraging nod and stepped out of the room, proceeding down the hallway until the tattoo on her wrist tugged.
***
Simon waited at the bar, thrumming his fingers on the scratched wood. With more guests showing up in the evening, the place filled with a pleasant, but not overwhelming buzz of conversation. Some players gathered at the pool table; others milled about, either around the tables or the bar, and a group of bikers occupied the space around the hearth, their deep laugh resonating around the room. The barman—luckily not the traumatized guy from earlier—had asked Simon for the order, but he told him he was still waiting for someone, and since then, he’d been left alone.
What if Shanna changed her mind? Other than the bartender, nobody would notice Simon’s embarrassment, but that wasn’t his biggest worry. He hoped she’d come because aside from all the rituals and conditions to be fulfilled and the general weirdness of the past few weeks, he wanted to simply go on a date.
With her.
A familiar laugh echoed from the main room with the pool table. She was here! Shanna had descended the stairs and was exchanging a few words and smiles with the group playing pool. She nodded and waved her arm around, then tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and looked to the bar.
Simon’s breath caught. In a white top and a floral skirt, she didn’t look that different; and yet, there was something in her movement, her posture, even the glow on her face, that made her shine in an entirely new light. Simon gawked, stunned, as sheheaded toward him, and only at the last moment remembered this was supposed to be a meeting of strangers, and swiveled on his chair to face the bar.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
“Not at all.” He gestured for her to sit. “Go ahead.”
She tucked her hair back again, a knowing smile spreading deep into her cheeks. “Ginger ale,” she told the barman.
“Same.” Simon gave her a side glance. “And put both on my tab.”
“A stranger, offering to pay for my drink? I was told I should be wary of those.”
