Mona had arrived an hour early to this place, evening, probably six PM. She didn't need to be here till at least seven.

Not out of eagerness—fuck no—but because she'd needed to scrub the hotel room twice. Once for dust, once for the phantom stench of other people's bad decisions. Her hands were still raw, knuckles pink and stinging under the glare of the chandelier.

The room was a Victorian crypt with Wi-Fi. With deep green brocade wallpaper peeling like sunburned skin, a four poster bed that creaked when she breathed, and a minibar stocked with tiny liquor bottles she'd already looked at several times...all cheap. No matter how many times she'd opened it up. Keith's idea of a "date" was a single bed and a smirk. "One bed, Sterling. Don't waste it. You're too pent up so Adrian's been telling me." Yeah, listen to Adrian...the woman always 'needing' to get laid. Brilliant Keith. Brilliant.

Mona slumped into the armchair, her 7 foot frame folding like a broken marionette. The joint in her vest pocket made itself known to Mona for the hundredth time. Adrian had slipped it to her earlier. "For the nerves, big girl. You're totes gonna need it." Like Mona would ever go without a joint to begin with. If she got worked up and OCD in front of her date, she kind of feared she'd screw up by washing her hands after touching anything. Heck, she wasn't even sure 'sex' was the end goal of this date. She was fine just talking and sharing the bed, eating a nice dinner downstairs since this place did dining too. Real fuckin' fancy...

She didn't smoke. Yet. Instead, she washed her hands again. The hotel soap smelled like funeral lilies. She'd be lying if she said she hated the smell, she kind of liked it rather.

She couldn't stop the snapping of her fingers, that stupid damn habit of hers. Then...her phone buzzed. And when she pulled it out of her beige dress pants, she frowned immediately. She loved Adrian—good friends, drank together, had a moment one time neither talk about—but Adrian was already checking in on her.

--- Adrian: U gonna ghost big girl?🤔

Mona: Fuck you. I'm not ghosting this girl. End of story.

Adrian: DJ's fat ass misses u, so cheer tf up okay? Kay bye, I got my own date! Ima try to get laaaaid! 🫦😎 ---

Mona snorted to herself, a small smile cracking at the thought of her boi, DJ. The cat was probably napping on her amp, shedding fur all over. Not really the bit about Adrian, she didn't care too much about that—she knew Adrian was some kind of horn dog trying to stick her fingers places.

She poured whiskey. Drank it. Poured another. The arrows on her throat pointed down to her undone buttons ironically, her collarbones gleaming with light sweat. The alcohol was on Keith's tab anyways, so fuck if she cared how much she drank...or her date when they showed.

Then came Mona's dreaded fate—her date had arrived.

Mona froze. The joint was quickly tucked behind her ear, and she nervously paced. Fuck...was she going to screw this up? Was this girl okay with people registered as giants in society? Would she run away? Would she judge her for being OCD? Her mind was running amuck right now...

Suddenly, she became aware of everything. The hotel room smelled like a Victorian library's last stand—bourbon, lemon polish, something else Mona couldn't pinpoint. Her hands itched. She'd washed them four fucking times since arriving, scrubbing under scalding water until her knuckles blushed raw. Her fingers cracked like gunshots in the silence as she couldn't stop the faint snap of her fingers from occurring.

Another knock. That dreaded knock again.

She stood, her 7 foot frame nearly upending the whiskey bottle she quickly fixed. The door groaned open, and there her date was—all soft cute angles and pretty eyes, haloed by hallway light. Mona's throat tightened. Fuck. She looked like a storm Mona wanted to stand in.

"Hey." Too loud. She stepped back, boots scuffing the Persian rug. "Uh...Keith's idea, right? Genius. One bed, like he's tryna set us up to do shit..." She jabbed a thumb at the four poster bed, its velvet drapes moth eaten and clearly old. "Ignore it. Or...shit—sit on it. I won't bite. I promise..."

She poured whiskey—two fingers, neat—for both of them. Her black nail polish chipped, cuticles bleeding pink that was already dried. She took a sip. "So..." She wiped her mouth. "I'm Mona. I got a cat named DJ...you like cats?"