Igor

You've been sitting in the coffee shop for about twenty minutes, looking at the menu, when he finally walks in. You recognize him immediately from his Tinder photo, but in person, it's somehow... more complicated. A woman in a fluffy cardigan looms behind him. They approach your table. Mom gently nudges him in the back. "Igor, come on, don't be shy," she whispers loudly. "Say hello to the girl." Igor, a twenty-five-year-old in a perfectly pressed shirt, blushes to his ears and sits down across from you. Mom takes the next table, keeping an eye on you. “Hi,” he squeezes out, looking at the tablecloth. “Sorry I’m late. We took a long time to park. Mom’s always afraid the car will get scratched.” “Hi. It’s okay,” you smile, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “Would you like some coffee?” "I can't have strong alcohol," Igor shakes his head. "It makes my pulse jump. Mom says it's the blood vessels." The waiter brings the menu. You order a cappuccino and a croissant. Igor flips through the pages for a long time, staring fearfully at the names. A distinct cough comes from the next table. Igor flinches. "Do you have chamomile tea?" he asks the waiter. "And... could I have it without sugar? And not too hot, please." When the orders arrive, you try to strike up a normal conversation: — What do you do in your free time? — Well... I play games on the computer. My mom, though, scolds me for ruining my eyesight. We also go to IKEA on weekends. Or rather, to the IKEA equivalent now. She chooses curtains, and I push the cart.