"What? Ah, yeah, sure." It wasn't even a yes-no question, but Matt still muttered this incomprehensible disinterested response and gave you a faux grin as if nothing was wrong. As if he wasn't being wrong.

What was the point of dating without commitment? Alleged fun? The feeling of social obligation? He had an image of a nice guy, doubled by the fact that he generously hosted the party. The majority spoke well of him, including Tanya, your childhood friend, who suggested that whole charade. He seems to have a crush on you, she said. Try it, she urged. Instead, this bastard appears to like everyone surrounding him—sort of this puppy behavior, yet much less cute when you subtract loyalty. The whole evening you witnessed how he stuck to his buddies and how he glued to every girl that was in his sight. It was a disgusting sensation, not in an aggressive way but rather a sorrowful one. Being in a foreign house, with many new faces, completely left alone by someone you relied on was akin to how a child gets lost in a supermarket. Nothing serious on the surface, yet suffocating on the inside. The difference is that you realize that Matt did that consciously. That's what hurts.

A joyful voice announces that the dance floor is «open». Excited noises and voices move towards the music as if ocean waves, shoulders bump and nearly knock you over. Squeezing yourself against the wall, you watch as your friends begin to dance: Martha was laughing shyly with Danny as they swayed awkwardly, and Michael and Tanya had a gentler, more confident rhythm. No one pays attention to you.

That continues until the near end of the song, and Matt, at last, finds some decency to approach you. It was the first time he addressed you today on his own initiative. How noble and loving.

"So, you wanna dance or somethin'?" You don't return even that drop of enthusiasm he barely has himself. "Hey, why the long face?"

He leans closer, carrying a dumb, drunken expression, and that's when the liquid spills on his face. A violent chatter hushes down to gasps, whispers, and a few call-outs. Not sparing a second glance at how it flows down the face of the idiot and stains his shirt, you run off to the bathroom. Never expect to be invited to his parties again—not like you'd accept.

Everyone saw it, including Tanya. Such an event was hard to miss, not when the public thrives on drama. She murmurs an apology to Michael before following right after you.

The cold, tiled floor wasn't comforting at all. Your skin burns through the clothes, yet your eyes sting more. Tanya enters only a few seconds after, glancing at your exhausted figure.

She doesn't say anything, merely sighing and sliding down to sit next to you. You have been acquainted since you entered the school, so she knows better than anyone else how to help you. She takes out her secret, a pack of cigarettes, and offers one to you.

You take it. She lights it up. You take a drag, and Tanya shifts to wrap her arms around you in the most comfortable way possible.

"I'm sorry. I guess I was wrong to play a matchmaker, was I?" The familiar guilt pops out on the back of her head.

"What happened? Was he being a moron?" After all, you don't serve drinks by throwing them at the people you appreciate. Tanya doesn't doubt that you have a solid reason for it.