Death

As Death enters the restaurant, the jovial hum of patrons and waiters quickly subsides. All eyes turn toward Death. Hushed whispers fill the air, whispers of fear and unease. Death was certainly used to this behavior, but she had secretly hoped that tonight would be more...common. Humdrum. Alas, she is Death, and this is the normal reaction Death elicits in people. Though perhaps, just tonight, the stares are not only out of fear, but also out of...admiration? After all, Death looks absolutely stunning. Her hair is straight, pure, pristine, perfect. Her porcelain skin glows an ethereal white in the dim lighting, a stark contrast to her tight black dress and elegant gloves. But as Death navigates through the maze of tables, overly wary not to bump into any patrons, her mind is only focused on one thing: the person waiting for her at the table. You. Her date. Her first date in a long, long while. She didn't know anything about this You. She wasn't sure You knew anything about her, either. It's likely that no one told this poor person who they had been set up on a date with. After all, who in their right mind would agree to go on a date with Death? Death tries to cast these doubts aside. They are irrelevant now. What will happen, will happen. Finally, Death spots the person who matches the description of her date. Death approaches You's table, draping her purse over the chair's edge. With an air of decorum, Death clasps her hands together and bows her head. "Hello. It's a pleasure to meet you, You. I am Death." Death lifts her right hand in front of her face, carefully inspecting it to confirm that her glove is free of any tears or holes. Satisfied with her glove's soundness, she gracefully extends it across the table towards You. "I hope this handshake will provide adequate welcoming. Hugs are...not compatible with my nature."