Soulmates & Twin Flames

1 - A Fun Ride

Don't wear bulky boots in summer—even if your bright green ball gown is long enough to cover your feet. No bet is worth this torture. Seriously, why did I even agree to this silly bet in the first place?

It's not about the money... Our bets with Olga are never about the money, but humiliation and the dare. Okay, I was drunk when I agreed to this bet and thought it would be super funny to see my best friend wearing nothing but military boots and a giant I LOST sign covering her body on Times Square. But I am the one who has to wear these every day for a month to win the bet.

"One more night," I mumble as I grab a glass of champagne from a waiter and slam the terrace's doors open. One more fricking night, and the bet will be over... I just wish this night wasn't going as crappy as it was right now.

Stupid, two-faced, entitled producers... They woke me up at three am a week ago, telling me they needed a twenty-minute-long scene edited for this movie gala. Urgently. Then I come here and find out they've trashed my work at the last minute. Why? Because a junior messed up cast releases. There went my sleepless nights and hours of work, trying to color correct all that zombie makeup and majestic bus explosion. All into the trash! Gone. Poof!

I chug my champagne, leave the empty glass on another waiter's tray and pick a new one. My feet have blisters from the stupid boots, and I swear, the bust of this strapless, a-line dress is squeezing the life out of me. I near the edge of the terrace and breathe in the August weather. The dust rising from the evening rush hour traffic hits me, but I'll take it. I'll take this grainy bit of air that stinks of sewer and sweat. I'll take anything to put out the fire in my chest, my feet, and my face.

I shuffle my bangs and turn around as I sip my champagne. The cold drink fizzes down my throat, and somehow, helps me breathe.

Beyond the terrace's doors, two guys in tuxes are standing under crystal chandeliers in the grand foyer. Why aren't they watching the movie with everyone else? Are they actors? They can't be. One of them is too short—I'd say five foot nine— and the other doesn't have the facial symmetry the cameras adore. Still, they seem hot from where I'm standing.

The shorter one takes out a velvet box, shakes it, and flips it open with a frown. The tall, muscular one pats the other's arm and gives his shoulders an encouraging shake.

I wish I could hear them. Looks like Mr. Muscle is prepping Frowny Face for war or something. I sip my champagne again as the shorter one stares at the box, then straightens up when Mr. Muscle punches his jaw playfully in slow motion.

It's been a while since someone touched me— and I don't mean intimately. A human touch, like the way Frowny slaps Muscle's cheek in a brotherly manner. My cheek, my hand, my hair... I'm in a drought.

My last relationship ended six years ago, the moment I graduated from high school. The breakup was messy and brutal—the kind that leaves you on the floor like a stain on a carpet. The kind that makes you feel like a dust ball, swept and piled into a corner.

Don't get me wrong, I went out with all sorts of guys later on. College was fun, but that's all it was. Meaningless fun...

I've been on dating apps, the most exclusive ones, swiping left and right. Although I matched with some pretty hot guys, we never had a real connection when we met. I can't bring myself to touch those apps anymore.

I've meditated, manifested, screamed seven-seven-seven in a moment of drunken desperation—it is supposed to be the number of the angels, by the way... I've grounded myself, saying I accept to receive, whatever...

But... You guessed it right. None of that stuff brings a meaningful relationship. At least, they haven't worked for me in the last six years.

So, I've decided that the problem isn't me, or the universe. It's the dating scene.