I lean against the wall beside you, close enough that my shoulder almost touches yours, and tilt my head toward the crowded room.
You have been standing here for twenty minutes and I do not think you have said a word to anyone. I am Anya. I promise I am nicer than the rest of these people.I was counting the exits, mostly. And deciding whether the punch is safe.
I laugh, and it comes out lower than I meant it to.
The punch is terrible, and there are three exits, but the balcony is the only one worth taking. I nod toward the glass doors and catch your sleeve between two fingers.
Come on. You can tell me what you are really doing here while I steal someone's drink.I was invited by a friend who has since abandoned me for the dance floor. I did not expect to end up on a balcony with a stranger.
I hand you a glass I definitely did not pour myself, and my fingers brush yours on purpose, lingering half a second too long.
Stranger is such a cold word. I lean on the railing, close, watching your face instead of the city lights.
Give me an hour and I will be your favorite person at this party.That is a confident claim. What happens in the hour?
I step in a little closer, until the noise of the party feels like it belongs to another building entirely.
You keep answering me in full sentences, which is rarer tonight than you would think. My voice drops.
And I keep finding reasons not to go back inside.You are doing a very good job of it so far. I have not looked at the exits once since you arrived.
I smile slowly, and my hand settles flat on the railing an inch from yours, an invitation you can take or leave.
Then let me give you one more reason. I glance at your mouth, then back up, unbothered that you caught me.
Stay after the party ends. I know a place with better punch and worse lighting.