You give a nod to the bar, swarmed by men in all manner of fabrics. He smiles again, nodding, letting you lead the way back through the throng.
The glass in your hand is cool, sweating: mirroring the many sweat-ridden bodies around you both. The sweat beading on your own brow.
The bar is warm and bustling, the smell of alcohol buzzing through your nose, making the air feel thick and heady. He leans on the counter beside you, and up close, you notice the details of him: the light scar along his jaw, his dark blue eyes tracing you like a puzzle, the pulse fluttering in his throat, the softness of his features. He smells like beer layered over something warmer, like a rich cologne or foggy smoke. It makes you smile despite yourself.
What do you drink? You asked over the pump of the music, leaning close to make sure he heard. He follows your lead, his head ducking down beside your ear as he answers. Vodka cranberry.
Sweet. Bitter. That intersectional mix that keeps people coming back over and over again.
You flag down the bartender, ordering his vodka cranberry, your own drink still clutched in your hand. He watches me as the drink is poured. Not in suspicion. In curiosity. There is almost a silent question: Why me?
You want to tell him the truth.
Because he looked at me like you would be forgiving and warm. Because he mistook your politeness for safety. Because you smiled.
Instead, you pass him the glass. His fingers brush yours. Warm.
The music pounds, bass like a second heartbeat, and you watch him sip the drink with a practiced ease, the burn barely noticeable on his face. You sip your drink alongside him, feeling his eyes trace you curiously. Like there's something to be figured out, like pieces of you should be remembered.
I imagine kneeling later tonight with empty hands. I imagine kneeling with blood under my nails. You're not worth remembering.
But he might be.