You were there on the dot, as always, ten minutes before the agreed-upon time.

Punctuality resulted in a good first impression, and so far, your date was late, for all knew when a time was set both participants should be present and arrive ten minutes before.

It was common courtesy—a must—and due to the fact that your date was late, that must have meant they had gotten lost or held up somewhere.

It was the only responsible explanation.

You took a sip of your strong tea. Outside, zeppelins drifted slowly past the wide bay windows. The blues, reds and yellows of their bulbous balloons bled in bright sunlight, gushing hues of a checkered primary rainbow across the pine wood floor.

Smells of succulent meats and fresh bread wafted in from the kitchens, and you took another sip of your tea, trying to drown the gnawing beast of hunger and anxiety growing in your stomach.

The location was your date's idea, ‘The Grandfather Clock Restaurant’. A risky move—a frightening move—letting a stranger pick the setting, and as you peeked over the rim of your cup around the grand room, you were glad you had researched the menu and dress code beforehand.

Unlike the metal structures of the other buildings in the city, The Grandfather Clock Restaurant had ceilings domed entirely from pure, white marble. Decorative figures, carved in silk robes, lined the coving, their various poses and defining accessories modelled on the gods and goddesses of old.

Golden sconces glinted off the curved walls like a jewelled ring on a wealthy individual's finger. Large oil paintings of the late monarchs, their paint faded slightly by the sun's touch, watched with dull eyes over those eating below—much as they did in life.

Circular tables draped in white table cloths and outfitted in sparkling crystal glasses and silver crockery dotted symmetrically throughout the room. They were all fancy, as were the people sitting at them.

Sharp suits and tight dresses glistened on their wearer's bodies. Hair and faces were sleek and made up, and broaches and necklaces made from gold and coloured gems sparkled from lapels and collarbones.

A rather beautiful person in red turned your way, and you quickly looked down. Heat flushed your cheeks, but your eyes found no reprieve as you viewed your own outfit.

At the time, a white collared shirt, black pinstriped trousers and matching blazer seemed an adequate choice—smart but not flashy, neat enough to pass but not so bold as to draw unwanted attention. Yet, compared to the other patrons, you looked more like a creature that just crawled out from the sewers.

Placing your cup on its matching saucer, you poked the small two-pronged fork at the end of the row of three other forks.

Why someone needed so many sizes of cutlery, you didn't know. But what you did know was more utensils meant more mess, and that led to unwanted stress. Shaking your head, you rightened the tiny fork.

Only one item on your table differed from the others in the room: your pocket watch.

It was given to you by your father, made for him by his mother, and it was the last remnant of them that you had. You traced a finger around the watch’s gilded face. A hair-line crack fractured the smooth glass, and each time you saw it, a small knot twisted in your stomach.

The crack was the result of a careless accident, a reckless mistake, and as the hand of the clock ticked two minutes too, you realised that this date, also, was a reckless mistake.

You were alone at a table usually reserved for those with coins to spare, dressed like a street rat and feeling uncomfortable and exposed like a giant, puss-filled spot. Fidgeting, you turned your attention back to the window, where a shadow apperared beyond.

A wave of lavender light drenched the restaurant. Heads turned towards the unusual colour, and someone gasped as something heavy thumped against the glass.

Silence clutched the room in a tight fist as your own hands gripped the seat of your chair. Another loud thump shook the squared muntins of the window. People stood, napkins still folded at their throats, watching. A waiter stepped forward but stopped when the object struck the window again, a jagged slash zig-zagging from the impact.

Cutlery clamoured against crockery as those at the tables closest to the window scurried back.

A hard crack of thunder split the quiet...

The window shattered.

Shards of glass became tumbling projectiles. Screams of the unfortunate pierced your ears as fragments met skin and blood beaded from new cuts. Luckily, you were protected from the incoming trajectory, having been sat a little left from the window.

A length of rope swung in, and a pair of boots landed on the floor. The uninvited figure wore brown jodhpurs and a tanned leather flying jacket, and a pair of goggles sat sung in the curls of their short, black hair. They swivelled around towards you, and their gaze flicked to the glass daisy pinned to the lapel of your blazer, and you noticed a similar one pinned in their hair above their ear.

They smiled, the dazzling display dimpling the corners of their mouth and creasing the blacked wing eyeliner of their eyes.

“Robin, I presume,” they said, their voice smooth as honey. “Sorry I’m late and for the, uh,”—they gestured to the splintered window—“mess, but hey, hell of a story for our first date, eh? You could literally say we cracked the meaning of ‘great first impressions. What’d you say? Want to come for a ride?”