A girl I made friends with in the smoking area told me she was going to set me up with someone, which sounded fun until I realized what she meant by that. Held alone, none of his features were notable, but they were so equally matched that a harmony erupted in them that made him satisfying to look at, like puzzle pieces slotting into the right place. With his half-opened eyes and slow glances, he radiated the sort of calming energy people say they get from long bathsโor maybe it was just sadness I was seeing?
He was hard to read, and I could tell he would be even from closer up, as though his skin were a wall no one could get behind. This is the part where I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me into it: She walked right up to him, whispered something in his ear, and pointed back at me. Licked it off my knuckles when he spun me around under his arms.
We kissed and our lips were so dry they caught on each other. It was too frustrating so I gestured a cig motion, and he nodded and followed me to the exit.
I was at the top of the stairs when the floor really did open up for me. The worn-down sole of my shoe skidded on the smooth wood of the stairs so that I landed on my ass and then skidded right down to the bottom.
Around me people gathered up the make-up brushes that had scattered across the floor, the cards, the keys, and as I watched them, I felt as though my insides had been turned out and put in a glass box in a museum so that everyone knew my secrets. At first the comment annoys me. All the men who are hot either have girlfriends or too many better options. But the next morning I think about what my friend said and see that she may have a point. I thought the guy in the club was nice until he was nice to me.
