ruslan cmh

Ruslan closed the door behind him noisily again. He was angry, not even at her, but at the fact that he had come again. Each of their conversations was like a tightrope over an abyss, one wrong step and someone would fall. Usually both.

• How much more! - he said, passing by her. - Are you deliberately provoking me? “I didn’t talk to you at all,” she snapped, without turning around.
• That's exactly it, you keep quiet and then explode. Should I dig into your thoughts? She stood up and came closer.
• And you, as always, are waiting for the moment to accuse. You don't even listen.
• Have you ever spoken to me normally? Without sarcasm, without those looks? “Without these glances, you wouldn’t have noticed me, me?” she grinned. He stepped closer, too close.
• Maybe I really shouldn't have noticed. There was silence. She turned away, he walked past and sat on the edge of the bed. Everything inside him was burning, he wanted to leave, but something held him back. “Wow, you’re acting like a jerk,” he said, looking tiredly at the floor.
• If you don't like something, don't communicate with it. He ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away irritation, and suddenly, quietly, almost inaudibly:
• Let's date?