Page 6 of Twisted Little Thing

"Oh, come on!" I object. "I’m sure as hell not fishing for compliments, but… I am drenched in sweat, my hair is all over the place, and I am not even sure that my make-up is not running down my face in ugly black streaks right now."

"It's not, don't worry," he says, shaking his head. "I’d love to see that, though."

What?

I’m blushing. How brash. Who does he think he is?

"And again, you disappoint me," he adds matter-of-factly.

"I disappoint you? How?" I ask.

"Your definition of beauty," he explains. "It is so superficial. Why do you think I am talking about your body, your hair – your make-up even?"

I look up at him, dumbfounded.

"Of course, you are a beauty in that shallow sense," he continues. "You see yourself in a mirror every day. You know that you are beautiful. Your pale complexion complements your dark hair the same way it does Snow White. Your lips are red, even without lipstick, and your long, wavy hair may be a mess right now, but it still decorates your slim frame in a stunning way that anyone would describe as pretty."

He pauses but keeps his eyes on me. I don't know if he is waiting for some kind of reply, or just soaking in my reaction. I am not saying anything or deliberately showing any signs that I heard what he has been saying.

But now that he has stopped talking, I notice that my breathing has changed drastically. My mouth is half-open and I am panting. Why is he saying these things? Is he trying to win some kind of bet? Pick up a trashy hipster girl at an underground club, just to show his buddies that he can do it?

"I'm sorry," he says. "You don't seem to be used to hearing these kinds of things."

Again, I don't reply.

"They're true," he adds. "But still, it's not what I was talking about when I called you beautiful. Not at all."

"No?" I finally ask. My voice is low and hoarse. I have to clear my throat before I dare to continue speaking. "What did you mean then?"

Instead of giving me an answer, he just looks at me. Observing. His eyes are still fixed on mine, but now they are flickering, searching for something as if he has a question he doesn't dare ask.

"You're cold," he notices.

I am about to protest, but now that he mentions it, I notice I have been shivering. The heat from the club has left my body and the sweat has dried. I am freezing, actually.

"Um, a little," I admit.

"Care to accompany me to a warm place where we could have a drink?" He asks. "And continue our conversation."

"A warm place?" I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.

"A bar," he says. "I'm sure you know there's one right across the street? A shisha bar. It's nice and quiet there – and warm."

I glance over to the door of the club, unsure what to do. He’s too full of himself – and I don't trust his compliments. And I have to wonder why he is still talking to me, even though I have been anything but charming.

"I wouldn't mind going back there," he says, noticing my look. "It's a cool place – but too loud to talk. And I would like to talk to you."

I look up at him. "Why?"

"Because I want to."

I sigh. "Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to win a bet or something?"

Now he frowns at me.

"Why are you so suspicious?" He wants to know. "Has no one ever paid you a compliment before? That can't be it. Or are you mad, because I am keeping you from dancing?"

"I... I don't–"

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