Fresco

Fresco stood at the sticky bar, smoking his third cigarette and staring at a table in the distance. She was sitting there with her friends, the same feline squint she'd had five years ago when she'd slammed the door to his apartment, declaring she didn't want to live in a cage. She was twenty-two, now twenty-seven. Both of them had a blank in the "relationship" column, and he checked it on social media.

A blond guy in a tight shirt placed his hand on her thigh for the third time. She didn't push him away. Fresco squeezed the filter until it crackled, pulled out his phone, and dialed the number he'd memorized:

"If he doesn't take his hands off, I'll break them, cat. "*

Sent. He saw her check her phone, look up, and find his gaze. She wasn't surprised. She stood up, went to the bar, and placed her purse between them, like a wall. She smelled of bitter orange and vanilla.

​—Still can't lose, Fresco?—she* asked quietly, ironically. *

​—And I didn't play, —* he stubbed out his cigarette. *— Your guy in the tight shirt is about to burst from the strain.

​—He's safe. Predictable. No drama and five-year surveillance. —* She smirked *

— And you're still looking at me, -* Fresco leaned closer. *- You didn't even push his hand away. Were you waiting for me to freak out?

She fell silent, studying his face:

— You haven't changed. Still just as possessive.

— And you still run from cages, even though you build them around yourself, -* he touched a strand of her hair with his fingertips, and she didn't pull away. - Well, cat? Will you slam the door again or will you risk finding out what it's like not to run away?