Ice To Meet You

Is he playing with me or am I getting played?

It's like he can read my mind and he takes another step forward, officially leaving us inches apart. I want to run, but I am not sure if it is towards him or away from him.

I look down at the tiny space between our feet, trying my best to avoid his penetrating gaze. He gently touches my chin with his index finger, waiting for me to lift my head up. On a regular night, I would call this gesture too forward, but his touch is barely even there. I lift my face and look straight into his eyes. When did I become this bold?

He is gorgeous. His face is sculpted, practically chiseled. He has high cheekbones, and his face is square-ish; I can see why people might find him unapproachable. There is no smile on his lips, and because of how tightly pressed they are, his jaw looks snatched. I can't tell the exact color of his eyes yet, but if I had to guess from his Instagram pictures, they would be blue. I want to see his eyes in broad daylight, the darkness of the party is concealing the exact hue from me. I know it'll bother me not knowing this tiny detail about him. I can feel the buzz from the alcohol peaking or is it his presence affecting me?

He leans toward me and whispers, his lips close to my ears.

Close yet far.

"Hi."

His voice induces tingles down my spine.

No man has ever whispered to me at a party; usually, people try to talk over the loud music. I shouldn't have heard him, but given how close he came to say it, I somehow did.

"Hello" I whisper back knowing it is counterproductive. He can't hear me; I can barely hear me. What is wrong with me?

"How is your night going Mia?" he whispers again, and I can feel the goosebumps covering every inch of my body. How does he know my name? Can he tell who stalks him on Instagram? Did I like a picture by mistake? Oh my, this is so creepy. I want to run to my room, hide under my fuzzy blanket and never come out again.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, leaning close to him, this time making sure he can hear every word coming out of my mouth.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks, ignoring my question. No, I don't want a drink. I want to know how he knows my name.

"Not until you tell me how you know my name." I don't bother being polite this time.

"Easy tiger, Hannah told me about you," she did? Why? What did she say? Oh god, I have a feeling I am not going to like this.

"What did she say?" I probe, curiosity evident on my face. I can feel my anxiety return, and I am trying hard not to let it consume me. I hate not knowing.

"Step out for a cigarette with me?" he asks casually. Is he playing with me or am I getting played?

Without waiting for my answer, he starts walking towards the door. I follow him like a lost puppy, trying hard not to notice how cute his butt is.

The music is faded now, still there in the background elevating the ambiance. The yellow lights kissing the streets are such a contrast to the neon ones inside. In case you can't tell, I am trying my best to ignore him.

I am focusing on everything except the yummy distraction right in front of me.

He lights a cigarette and stretches his arm out, offering me one. I do like to enjoy a cigarette or two socially. Tonight, I want to appreciate the smell of fresh cut grass flirting with my nostrils. Also, he assumed I smoke, and if I do take the cigarette, I will prove his assumption of me right. I don't want to do that.

"No thank you," I say and smile politely. Why is he making me so nervous?

"You don't smoke?" he's got a deep, almost velvety voice. It has a hint of an accent that I don't recognize. Australian maybe?