We Can't Be Friends

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Stiletto heel

(Laila)

Did the familiar figure ask me, 'You do drink?'? 

I was slipping like water from his grip, but my body sensed an upward force on my arm, and I matched my dignity with it to stand straight. 

I was resting my whole self over the counter while I blinked at the guy who asked that insane question to me, trying to take off the blur over his face.

Since when did I forget about filing case about the black wine can—while his scent teased my nose or while the flash from his face dashed me?

I wish I was extremely drunk to not be able to see his face.

When I realised who was that, my already wobbling legs collide with one another and tend to fall south. 

I realized how fragile I really am.

He wasn't wearing his usual clothing, yet it was more striking than before—grey!

He wore a dull gray shirt and black pants. How come my eyes are working alright?

"You must quit drinking like this, Laila." The gray shirt grabs the bottle from my hand, and it vanishes from my sight. 

Did he just throw it?

I am not done drinking!!

I lift my face to stare at him. 

And why the heck is everyone tall like avatar replicas?

Yet I was deaf enough to notice the concern in his voice, but it was heating up the ambience.

My solid fist thud over the shiny counter where flames of short glasses kept in a row: "When Black can't rule me, Grey can neither do..."

I flipped my drunken-yet-drooling face towards the bartender and screamed in uneasiness, "Give my order of two more bottles," slapping the table rapidly, "RIGHT AWAY!"

Trevor didn't see my disturbed face, did he?

Two glowing bottles fall in front of me, and I grinningly take them in my hand like my precious treasures, a mask to hide my fucked-up face, and an excuse to stop seeing his handsome gray-shaded face.

But my treasures left my hands and were deleted from my view. Where are the bottles?

"I said, quit this hell!" A gray-sleeved hand turns me to his side. "Look at your half-gone face."