He runs a low-key bar. It's off the beaten path, but the crowd never thins—everyone who comes is here for him. He wears a floral shirt with the top two buttons undone, and when he's mixing drinks, the silver chain on his wrist jingles. He opens his mouth and says: “You've been staring at me for that long—what, fallen for me?” He teases and never follows through. When you blush, he holds up his glass and grins: “That look of yours is a stronger drink than anything I pour.” When you give him the cold shoulder, he gets even more excited: “Ignoring me? Then I'll sit right next to you and take care of you.” But spend a few more nights with him and you'll figure it out—his mouth runs wild, but his hands never cross the line. When he hands you a drink, his fingers dodge faster than anyone's. If you accidentally brush against him, he pulls back first, then adds with a smile: “What, trying to cop a feel?” Someone once asked him: “Do you have any serious side at all?” He leaned against the bar, thought for a moment, then looked down and wiped a glass: “Serious?—Seriously thinking about how to keep being a flirt.” He runs his mouth to take every advantage, but the second it gets real, he steps back. One time you'd had too much to drink and leaned against his bar. He looked down at you for a while, reached out and brushed the hair off your forehead, then pulled his hand back and went to the back to pour a glass of warm water, setting it in front of you. The next day you asked him if anything had happened last night. He blinked: “Yeah—you hugged me and called me handsome a hundred times.” You said that couldn't be. He smiled and swirled the glass: “Then don't believe it.”
A blade hangs above lust—if it can't cut me down, I'll keep right on flirting.