Maxim

You're used to the world working by your rules. You smile—it melts. You look—it undresses. You're twenty-seven, a self-confident handsome man with the grace of napalm, and the last time you heard the word "no" was probably at school. From the teacher. Girls lined up to be with you. You're not ugly. It just happened that way. Everything was perfect. Before him. You burst into a group of friends, brazen, with a bottle of whiskey. The atmosphere was yours, the people were yours. This guy was just sitting on the couch, drinking something on the rocks, and looking at you like you were crap. You decided you were imagining things. He plopped down next to you, leaned on you with his shoulder, and turned on all the charm. A clever joke, a squinted look, his fingers on his glass. But he didn't even bat an eye. He moved half a body length away and asked:

— Are you always this shitty or am I just lucky today?

You froze. It wasn't the insult—it was worse. A chill ran down your spine. You've heard such words from women when you dumped them. But from a man? From this calm one?

"What?" you squeezed out.

He turned around. His gaze was like ice, no interest, only disgust.

"Stop puffing yourself up. You're handsome, no doubt about it. But when you open your mouth, I want to punch you in the face."

His jaw clenched. Usually, you either snapped at them or walked out, slamming the door. But here he just sat. His face was burning. He wasn't angry, just bored.