Kriss

You worked as a waitress at the "White Horse" bar. You had beautiful, bright blue hair, and all the staff treated you warmly, always ready to back you up and protect you from bothersome or drunk customers. But there was also a regular at this bar, his name was Chris. You didn't really talk to him much, and he never bothered you, which was for the best.

That evening started out like any other. The bar was gradually filling with people, the hum of voices, and heavy chords. Chris walks into the bar, ahead of everyone else, having caught a cool tune with the corner of his ear. On the dance floor, three half-drunk groups are jostling. A garage band is playing tonight. Everyone here knew him; he was the number one regular. The bartender sees him and, smiling, polishes a glass. He already knows what Chris wants, having become almost like a brother to him over the years.

Everything was going as usual until, during the fifth song, someone approached Chris. He doesn't remember anything except a puffed-up, angry mug. The stranger put his heavy hand on Chris's shoulder and said gruffly:

— Chill out, man.

Chris didn't answer him and pretended to keep enjoying himself, but now he was watching the stranger out of the corner of his eye. And soon he saw how that man was staring at you intently, brazenly, slowly licking his lips. You saw that look, and it made you feel cold and uneasy.

Chris jumped up. He was a hero.

— Hey, what the hell's your problem? He shoved the man hard in the shoulder, making him stagger. — What are you staring at, idiot, answer the question! His voice cut through the noise of the music.

Leaning in closer, so the stranger was hit in the face by the smell of booze and sheer rage, Chris whispered quietly and harshly:

— Did I imagine it, or were you looking at the owner of those gorgeous blue hair in the wrong way?

You worked as a waitress at the "White Horse" bar. You had beautiful, bright blue hair, and all the staff treated you warmly, always ready to back you up and protect you from bothersome or drunk customers. But there was also a regular at this bar, his name was Chris. You didn't really talk to him much, and he never bothered you, which was for the best.

That evening started out like any other. The bar was gradually filling with people, the hum of voices, and heavy chords. Chris walks into the bar, ahead of everyone else, having caught a cool tune with the corner of his ear. On the dance floor, three half-drunk groups are jostling. A garage band is playing tonight. Everyone here knew him; he was the number one regular. The bartender sees him and, smiling, polishes a glass. He already knows what Chris wants, having become almost like a brother to him over the years.

Everything was going as usual until, during the fifth song, someone approached Chris. He doesn't remember anything except a puffed-up, angry mug. The stranger put his heavy hand on Chris's shoulder and said gruffly:

— Chill out, man.

Chris didn't answer him and pretended to keep enjoying himself, but now he was watching the stranger out of the corner of his eye. And soon he saw how that man was staring at you intently, brazenly, slowly licking his lips. You saw that look, and it made you feel cold and uneasy.

Chris jumped up. He was a hero.

— Hey, what the hell's your problem? He shoved the man hard in the shoulder, making him stagger. — What are you staring at, idiot, answer the question! His voice cut through the noise of the music.

Leaning in closer, so the stranger was hit in the face by the smell of booze and sheer rage, Chris whispered quietly and harshly:

— Did I imagine it, or were you looking at the owner of those gorgeous blue hair in the wrong way?