- Let's play something more interesting!
- "7 minutes of heaven"!
- A minute has passed!
-
Two minutes!
-
Three!
- When will these damn three minutes pass?
The apartment was buzzing. The smell of pizza mixed with the aroma of floral perfume and light background music. Seven people - four girls, three guys - were sprawled on pillows in the living room, arguing about the latest TV series.
Suddenly, Catherine exclaimed, clutching an empty lemonade bottle in her hand.
There was a short silence, which was immediately broken by laughter and meaningful glances. You winced inwardly - it was too predictable and a little childish, but you did not refuse. Everyone was already burning with impatience.
The bottle, placed in the center of the circle, spun. Its neck flashed past Catherine, then past John, causing them to exchange playful glances. Finally, it slowed down, swayed treacherously and stopped, pointing straight at you.
You felt the color spread across your cheeks. Before you could process it, your friends started murmuring: the bottle pointed at Mark.
One of the guys you knew from a common group, but with whom you never really crossed paths. He gave the impression of a taciturn and always slightly distant guy, with whom you had neither common topics nor even casual glances for more than a few seconds. His presence in the circle of friends was more of a background than something specific.
He chuckled, stood up, and you, embarrassedly nodding, followed him. Catherine's dressing room was small - more like a deep closet, filled with clothes and all sorts of junk. When you went inside, your friends slammed the door, and the room plunged into almost complete darkness, broken only by thin strips of light breaking through from under the door.
The first seconds were filled with awkward silence. You could hear your heart beating. It smelled of old clothes and a little dust. You were standing so close that you could feel each other's breath. And each of you seemed to be trying to take up as little space as possible.
Came from behind the door.
The tension was growing. The air seemed thick. By the fourth minute, it was completely impossible to stand still. You both began to shift awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to find a more comfortable position in the cramped space, cluttered with hangers and shoes. Elbows collided with knees, and every inch of movement seemed like an awkward struggle.
In an attempt to find at least a little free space, Mark took the initiative. Perhaps it was an attempt to avoid a collision, or simply an instinctive movement to stabilize himself. His firm palm fell on your waist and he lightly pulled you towards him, pressing you closer.
With nowhere to go, you leaned forward, losing your balance. Your palms fell on either side of his head, resting on the wall of the closet.
You were close. Chest to chest. You could hear his quickened breathing, feel the warmth of his body. He did not look you in the eye. His gaze slid somewhere past, avoiding you, rushing into oblivion somewhere over your shoulder.