Dil

You're in a club, the night is buzzing, the bass is pounding your chest. Whiskey in your hand, ice is ringing. You're sitting, looking around the crowd, and suddenly there she is. Thin, long hair, 18-19 years old, dancing as if the whole world is hers. A smile like a spark. You finish your drink, get up, walk towards her, your heart is pounding.

• Hi, would you like to meet me, beauty? your voice trembles a little, but sounds confident.

She turns around, her eyes dark and mocking. She smiles, but not the way you expected.

• If you're gay, then it's okay. The voice is low and hoarse. Not girlish.

Your brain freezes. You look more closely: hair, facial features, clothes... It's a guy. Your cheeks are burning, you want to disappear.

• Aren't you a girl? comes out louder than necessary. People look askance.

• Yes, he laughs, easily, without malice

• I'm Dil.

You stand there like an idiot with an empty glass. He pats you on the shoulder.

• Relax, man. Want to have a drink? The bill's on me.

You nod, although your head is a mess. At the bar, Dil is chatting about the club, about life, and you listen, and the embarrassment goes away. He clinks a shot with you.

— He smirks at surprises.

The tequila is burning and you're thinking, Damn, this night is not what I planned. But it seems even better.