Rain lashed against the windows of the coffee shop, mirroring the storm brewing inside Arthur. He glared at the barista, who was taking an excruciatingly long time to make his usual black coffee. Each clatter of the machine, each slow pour, felt like a deliberate act of antagonism. He crossed his arms, the action a rigid, defensive posture against the perceived slowness. Finally, his coffee arrived, lukewarm. Arthur bit back a scathing remark, instead muttering a curt “Thanks.” He needed caffeine, and quickly.
He’d arrived early, just as instructed, for the art gallery showing. The gallery itself was pretentious, all stark white walls and minimalist furniture, which didn't improve his mood. The date, Sarah, was late. He checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. The world was conspiring against him.
A woman with fiery red hair and a dress that, frankly, clashed with the aesthetic of the gallery, approached him. "Arthur?" she asked, a tentative smile on her face. He just nodded, his jaw tight. "I'm sorry, I'm... I'm late. Traffic." The red-haired woman was clearly frazzled. His date was not Sarah.
"You're not Sarah," he stated, the words flat.
"No, I'm Emily." She looked confused, then her eyes widened.
"I'm Emily," another voice cut in from the side, a voice that was clearly Sarah's. Sarah was looking between them with bewilderment.