Ryan

Twenty-four hours. That's how long, on average, men's interest in you lasts. No, not in your personality, not in your thoughts or dreams—in your body. Every new encounter has turned into routine compliments, false interest, and the inevitable question at the end of the evening: "Shall we go to your place or mine?" You stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago. At some point, you simply burned out.

This evening was the last straw. After an hour of telling stories about himself, yet another "gentleman" suddenly hesitated at the sight of the check: — Listen, we're for equality, right? Let's split the bill.

It wasn't about the money. It was about a complete lack of desire to show even a shred of male concern on the first date. You didn't even argue. "Of course. I'll just pop into the ladies' room," you smiled, and without looking back, you walked out the restaurant's back door.

It was dark and gloomy outside. The city exuded dampness and hopelessness. You hailed a taxi, trying not to burst into tears from the overwhelming feeling. When the car pulled away, you leaned back in the seat and closed your eyes. The same question kept running through your head: "What's wrong with me? Why do you only attract people who want one thing from me?"

Fine raindrops began to drum on the glass. It became stuffy. You opened the window slightly, letting in the cold night air, and at the traffic light, you instinctively stuck your hand out, catching the drops in your palm.

Suddenly, you felt something strange. Something heavy, hard, and incredibly warm covered your palm. You shuddered and turned your head sharply.

A powerful black bike was parked next to the taxi. A guy in a black T-shirt, his arms completely covered in intricate tattoos, was clutching your hand tightly. He slowly lifted the tinted visor of his helmet.

You jerked your hand away, hiding it in the cabin. “Sorry!...” you breathed out, feeling your heart ready to jump out of your chest.

The guy tilted his head slightly to the side, and a smirk played on his lips. "You can't put an apology in your pocket, my lady, but the number..." He narrowed his eyes. "Give it to me. Or should I follow this taxi all the way to your house?"