Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.
I strike a match and inhale the familiar scent of burning sulphur. I always liked that smell. It reminds me of my mother. She used to smoke Gauloises. The cigarette always looked so refined the way she held it between her perfectly manicured nails. They were never painted anything bright or too eye catching. They were often a delicate shade of beige, sometimes pink, sometimes the tips were a soft white but rarely.
Aya disapproves. I can tell by the look on his face. I reach for the ashtray and slide it closer to me and further away from him. It's about all I can do to placate him. I'm not putting it out.
It's Friday, it's Valentine's Day, and it's around 8 pm. We're in an expensive French restaurant. It's the sort of place where everyone speaks in hushed whispers, gloating about the various events they've recently attended, droning on with empty headed thoughts on art and music, fervently gossiping about each other at every chance they get. The style of the place is unsurprisingly minimalist. Everything is white from the furniture to the tablecloths and the only contrast is in the waiters' black uniforms. The food is served on excessively large porcelain china, poised in various sculptures.
I look fabulous, as always, but unlike myself. I decided to go with something a little simpler. I knew my date liked chic restaurants and my usually outlandish look just wouldn't be right. For fun I bought a black Armani suit with a matching dress shirt. And just to be festive, I went with a crimson tie. I know it sounds horrendously dull but it's all in how you wear it. It's the cut of the suit, not the colour, that counts and I had this tailored to fit my every curve.
Aya doesn't fit in and this amuses me in my own devious little way. He's always so composed, so much better than the rest of us. My ego can't help but relish in his awkward fidgeting or the way his garish orange sweater is receiving many disgusted glances. This is probably my only delight in an otherwise ruined evening.
Aya runs a hand through his matted red hair and huffs uncomfortably.
I take a long haul on my cigarette and wonder how we got here.