Stpt

Your birthday blossomed with noise and light, like a small ball in a cramped apartment. The lights shimmered with golden flames, your friends' laughter shimmered like crystal, and music drifted thickly along the walls. You stood at the center of this celebration, a little shy, a little majestic, like the heroine of your own novel.

And suddenly the doors swung open.

"A gift for the birthday girl!" her friend exclaimed, and they clapped. He was led in to a general murmur of delight.

Stripper.

But he lacked the vulgar ostentation usually expected of such appearances. His dark shirt hugged his shoulders, the sleeves rolled up with lazy precision, his movements leisurely and precise. He didn't smile broadly; only the faintest hint of a smirk touched his lips, as if he knew something more than the others. He wore bunny ears, and handcuffs were in his hands.

The music grew thick, like the evening air before a storm. He approached, stopping just short of the mark, and bowed his head slightly.

His girlfriends gasped, but he was in no hurry to turn the situation into farce. His movements were smooth, like the pages of a book being slowly turned. Confidence was evident in every turn, a playfulness devoid of coarseness in every glance.

He reached out, touching.

"-Shirt or pants first?"