I am a Dalek, and I am a woman.

I am beautiful.

They created me to kill, but I was born to love.

That's what I tell myself because I'm terrified.

A girl who has fought against entire armies. Terrified. Of a man.

A man she loves.

I stand on the sidewalk outside a restaurant, inhaling the wonderful aromas of melted cheese and garlic and fattening meats immersed in tomato sauces.

Taking out a small hand mirror, I do a last minute check. I only have one eye, but the eyeliner and eyeshadow do seem to enhance the appeal, I think. The foundation, the facial makeup, it was hard to match my color, but I think it also looks nice, but my pink lipstick stands out a little too much.

Those are the parts I could fix. There wasn't a lot I could do about having a brain on the outside of my head, or the tentacles. I tried foundation and some other things, but it didn't work. The last thing I want to do is make myself look like a greasy clump of fried calamari.

I take a deep breath, but I think I'm hyperventilating.

A human male.

A man.

Asked me, a human Dalek, on a date.

I stand by the glass door of Palazzo Pitti Italian Gourmet.

My first date. Ever.

Tonight, these legs, which have once snapped men's necks, are weak and shaky.

I nervously clutch a brass door handle with the mitten-like fin that serves as my hand, my sleek pink pumps clunking heavily on the hardwood floor as I step inside.

It's an elegant establishment. Tables with long silky green table cloths, beautiful framed landscapes of Italy, mosaics, marble statues and a fountain. I can imagine Cupid hiding behind the statuary.

A second later, a pretty little twenty year old blonde waitress tries to usher me to a table. I ask if my...boyfriend is there, but she only gives me a blank look, suggesting I might want to wait at a table until he shows up.

There weren't any reservations, I guess.

She leads me to one of the smaller corner tables, beneath a large framed mirror that makes me uncomfortably self conscious.

I get some water, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

It's now over an hour since I first arrived. Everyone is staring at me.

A creepy old guy with a white mustache gawks at me from a table adjacent to mine. He's dining alone, and really weirding me out. I find myself reaching for a nonexistent weapon to exterminate him with before I realize I'm unarmed.

A fat woman and her little boy gawk at me from the table opposite. I used to fire at people like this, simply because they stared, and I couldn't cope.

Right now, I wasn't sure I could cope.

The shame! The absolute shame! A Dalek making herself vulnerable, and letting a pathetic human crush her emotionally!

I frown sadly at the jade colored tablecloth.

"He stood me up!" I whisper, my heart full of bitterness and dejection. "I knew he was too good to be true!"

I break down and cry. I'm sure my mascara is smearing, but that doesn't matter anymore.

I order breadsticks, eating them without joy, food consumption as an emotional outlet.

A few minutes later, I hear my cel phone ringing.

Okay, so it's really a broken Motorola I use to conceal the fact that my left hand can send and receive telephone signals, but let's not split hairs. It has a phone number.

It's him. I can tell by the glowing numbers on my palm.

I come close to letting it ring and go to my illegally obtained voicemail account.

You stood me up, I thought. Why should I listen to your lame excuses?

If you don't want to be seen with me, just tell me. Don't play these stupid games!

But I answer, heart pounding, part of me not so angry as desperate.

"Hello?" I stammer.

"Desiree?"

It's him, all right. This had better be good!

"You've sure got some ner-!"

"Dez! I'm over at Mizzios," he said. "I've been waiting for an hour! Where are you?"

My face flushes a solid purple in embarrassment.

In a squeaky voice, I reply, "Um, somewhere else?"

"What are you doing over there?" he asks.

Being a total idiot, I thought. You memorize the floor plan of a Cyberman battle cruiser but you can't figure out something as simple as the correct name of an Italian eatery? "I...don't know."

"Well then. Come over here. It's lonely sitting at a table all by myself and getting stared at."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, frowning at Mr. White Whiskers. I wasn't sure what was worse, the old man being disgusted, or the old man being over his disgust and admiring my legs. I shudder.

Robert doesn't hear me, apparently due to the noisiness of the other restaurant. "What?"

"Nothing," I say. "I'll be over in a few minutes."

A second after I hung up, I hear the sound of glass and metal being smashed. When I look up, I see a chrome machine with tentacles destroying my car.

An army of the things are filing down the street, demolishing vehicles and obliterating innocent people with blasts of shrapnel. The front of the restaurant explodes.