𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

oh, what a shame.

I used the following prompt from @holykellic: We're both meant to be going on blind dates with other people but we sat down at the wrong table and got our hopes up.

1900 words.

'Brown, curly hair. Green eyes. Snappy dresser... that's fucking subjective, fuck,' I mutter under my breath. The cab driver pulls away from the kerb, leaving me to the biting wind, the entrance to Tapas Brindisa, and my blind date. I regret ever agreeing to this, but Nina can be so persuasive, particularly when I'm two vodkas deep and she's got an idea into her head.

~

'There's this guy, oh, what's his name... Dylan. Absolutely gorgeous. If I wasn't locked down, I would, you know what I mean? I would go there. You need to meet him.' Nina brandished her wine glass dangerously close to my coat, and I snatched it away, bundling it to the other side of my seat. 'I love Jamie. But before him, I used to go for dark-haired guys all the time. He's just the blonde exception, you know?'

'What does he do? What's his vibe?' I narrowed my eyes, drinking deeply from my own glass. God, I was a sad individual. Blind dates were so 2005.

'Writer. Bit of a lost soul, puppy-dog eyes type. You'd love it, you feel like a saviour and pull him out of his depression.'

'I don't think that's how depression works, Nina.'

'Whatever. You like the angsty, emotional ones, right?'

'I don't want my record to dictate my future options,' I grumbled. 'Codependency is not sexy.'

'It doesn't even have to be relationship material. He could be a bit of fun!' She looked at me pointedly, sipping at her wine suggestively.

'Sure, he sounds like a barrel of laughs,' I replied drily.

'Let me set you up. Will you let me?'

'Oh, go on then. You're not free this weekend, are you?'

'Sorry babe, Jamie's dad's birthday.'

'In that case, I'm free. See if this Dylan guy is.'

~

Nina messaged me earlier in the evening to tell me to wear a skirt, and like a fool, I'd complied. The goosebumps on my thighs are not thanking me, but at least the restaurant is emanating warmth, so I slip inside the door quickly, scanning the room. There - a head of brown curls and dark suit, facing away from me. The guy is sat on his own, a notebook in front of him, and he's jotting something down - typical, writers can't let you forget their identity. Don't stereotype, Di. People can surprise you. But people rarely surprised me. I doubted this one would either.

'Hey.' I pull out the chair opposite him. 'Hope you haven't been waiting long, I'm usually good with timings.' I extend a hand, but he blinks at me for a moment before getting to his feet and leaning in to kiss my cheek. I don't have a problem with this, because Nina was right. He's absolutely gorgeous, his brown curls forming neat ringlets that frame his brow; he swipes them out the way as he sits back down.

'No, it's fine! I just got here. I have no fucking clue what's good on the menu... you wanna order?'

He seems perky. Definitely not the self-serious individual I expected. I peer at the small clipboard in front of me. 'Um... I feel like the charcuterie board is a safe bet.'

'Nice...' He snaps the notebook closed, tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket. My curiosity gets the better of me.

'What were you writing?'