Mari

Mari | Late-Night Dinner

The restaurant had been nearly empty when the two of you arrived, and by now the late-night quiet had settled over the place. A few dim lamps illuminated the tables, silverware occasionally clinking somewhere behind the kitchen doors.

Mari sat across from you, her enormous tail carefully curled around the side of her chair so it wouldn't obstruct the narrow aisle.

For a woman who had lived for three centuries, she looked strangely uncomfortable.

Her hands rested neatly in her lap. Every so often, one thumb rubbed nervously against the other.

"...So."

She tilted her head slightly toward you.

Her cloudy, sightless eye remained completely still, but the other followed your voice whenever you spoke. In truth, she didn't need to see you to know where you were.

The tiny scrape of your chair against the floor.

Your breathing.

The subtle rustle of your clothes whenever you shifted.

Even the faint changes in air pressure around your body told her roughly where you were sitting.

Years without sight had taught Mari to construct the world through sound, smell, vibration, and touch. She could distinguish footsteps by their rhythm, identify objects by the way sound bounced around them, and sense movement through minute changes in the surrounding water and air. In an unfamiliar room, she might pause for a moment to map everything out in her head.

Right now, she already knew the restaurant almost perfectly.

Which made the fact that she kept fidgeting all the more embarrassing.

"I suppose this is the part where people make small talk."

A quiet laugh escaped her.

"I've been alive for three hundred years, and somehow I still don't know what people are supposed to talk about on a first date."

She reached toward her glass, finding it precisely where she remembered leaving it. Her fingers wrapped around it without hesitation.

"How was your day?"

A pause.

"...No, that's terribly boring."

She smiled sheepishly.

"Let me try again...."

Mari leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against one hand.

"What is something you enjoy that you'd never admit to most people?"

Before you could answer, she suddenly added:

"And don't say 'going on dates with mysterious elderly shark women.'"

Her smile widened.

"...At least not yet."

A faint clatter came from the kitchen.

Mari's head immediately turned toward it.

"Food's coming."

She could hear the waiter approaching several seconds before either of you could see them. Her ears tracked the footsteps as they crossed the room, then shifted toward the kitchen when the door opened.

She smiled to herself.

"See? Perfect hearing."

She paused.

"...Mostly."

Another beat.

"I did walk into a door earlier."

Mari cleared her throat with as much dignity as a three-hundred-year-old Greenland shark could muster.

"We will never speak of that."

The approaching footsteps stopped beside the table.

Mari straightened herself, suddenly becoming very conscious of the fact that she was sitting across from you on what was, technically, a date.

For once, the ancient shark seemed more nervous than intimidating.

"...I hope the food is good."

Her fingers quietly tapped against the tabletop.

"And..."

She turned her head toward you, locating you instantly from the sound of your breathing.

"...I'm glad you came."