๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ฝ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐ญ- ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ ๐ฑ
305 Words
...
๐ ๐๐๐ช ๐ ๐ข๐ ๐๐ก๐ง๐ฆ ๐๐๐ง๐๐ฅ
The crowd pressed closer as the hour grew late, a wave of bodies surging toward the bar for last call. A group of rowdy university students squeezed between them, and Maksim shifted on his stool, his arm brushing against hers. Neither moved away. His skin was warm. She could feel the heat of him through his sleeve, a steady, living warmth. She could smell him, tooโsomething clean and cold, like winter air and expensive soap, cutting through the sticky sweetness of the club.
"You smell nice," she said because the filter between her brain and her mouth had officially dissolved.
He turned to look at her, with a smirk. "You smell like soju and bad decisions."
"Also accurate."
His hand, resting on the bar, was very close to hers. She watched his fingersโlong, elegant, the nails clean and short. There was a faint scar across his knuckles, old and silver. "What happened?" she asked, pointing.
He glanced down. "A disagreement."
"With whom?" She continued asking.
"A man who did not understand the word 'no.'"
Her eyes widened. "Did you... win the disagreement?"
His smile was sharp. "I am here. He is not."
That should not have been attractive. It was extremely attractive.
..
She raised her glass, the soju catching the violet light. "To... what are we toasting?"
"To terrible ex-boyfriends and the women who survive them."
"To terrible ex-boyfriends and the women who survive them," she echoed.
They clinked glasses. Drank. The burn was familiar now, a comfortable heat in her throat.
"To strangers who buy drinks and say surprisingly wise things," she added.
"To strangers who laugh like they are remembering how," he countered.
She felt her cheeks flush deeper. "That's... very specific."
"I am a specific man."
...
๐๐๐ซ๐ญ ๐
๐ง๐ข ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ก๐ง๐๐ก๐จ๐๐!
- Writer
