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Sunday - Quickly - Will M.

Her eyes were almost perfect — a flaw, like Faye Dunaway’s character in Chinatown, broke the ice blue in the iris of her left eye like the iceberg that downed the Titanic — and it was that near perfection that drew his eyes to her near-perfect ones from across the bar.

It happened fast after that.

He made his way to her — not rushed, but not slowly — with the lights striking each just right. 

The current Billboard Hot 100 single blared from the impressive PA. Neither noticed.

Around them were sweat-soaked, drunken multitudes, yet when he arrived next to her, it was as if no one else was talking.

The banter was inconsequential, but necessary for how these things work.

Still fast.

“Instant attraction” is a term people like to throw around with little regard for the whole “instant” part.

Even 0-60 in a drag racer isn’t instant.  But this was as close to “instant” as such things get.

They talked.

She ran her hand through her hair. He noticed, being a student of Unsubtle Body Language In The 21st Century. Brazen, he ran his fingertips over her arm.

Then: shots.

Tequila.

Set in front of them naked at first.

Downed.

Then refilled and set again, this time with company: salt. Lime.

The wrists: kissed. Shots: downed again.

Again.

Her neck.

They had to go.