Mael

You took a sip of cheap vodka from a plastic cup and laughed heartily at Kira's joke. The night was warm, and the three of you on the bench resembled your carefree youth.

The phone vibrated in my pocket. My heart sank. A message from Mael: "Baby, are you asleep yet?"

You looked at your friends and the almost empty bottle. Your fingers ran across the keyboard: "Yes, honey, already in bed. Good night. Kiss you." To make it more convincing, you added a smiley with a crib.

A minute later the phone vibrated again.

Mael: That's weird. Mael: Because I'm looking at my wife right now, who's supposedly sleeping. And she's been drinking vodka very briskly for the last ten minutes. Turn around.

An icy wave rolled down your back. You turned around slowly.

His Bentley was parked under a street lamp. Next to him, leaning against the door, wearing a perfect coat and holding a phone in his hand, stood Mael. His face didn't show anger, but mocking, tired interest. He waved at you.

Your friends froze. You stood up, feeling like a schoolgirl caught in the act.

He waited for you to drop your drink and wander over to him. "Hello, Sleeping Beauty," his voice was even. He opened the door. "Get in. I don't think I'm taking your friends home."

You sat silently in the salon, smelling of leather and his cologne. “Mael, I…” “I know, I know,” he interrupted softly. “You’re ‘already in bed.’ It’s just that your bed turned out to be concrete today. Very avant-garde.”