ok a deep breath and kept repeating to myself, “Run. Now.” “Thank you again for paying the bill,” he said, emphasizing the “again” as if it were part of some old agreement. “I’ll pay you back as soon as—” I didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. “Is everything fair?” I interrupted him. “Is this picture you’re painting fair?” His face changed. The smile shrank, reminding me of a balloon with air leaking out. “I don’t understand what…” I waved the receipt. His two words burned between my fingers. “Do you know what that means? The waitress lied about your card. About me. About you.Why?” He stepped back, his shoe sinking into a puddle, splashing mud down his trouser leg. “Maybe she decided to act interesting, that’s how they are…” For the first time, an icy tone crept into his voice. At that moment, my instinct finally surfaced: danger . I clutched the bag to my chest. “Save your excuses. Tell the truth. Are you in debt? Is someone stalking you? How many women have paid your bills because you “forgot” your wallet?” The conversation reached a dead end. He tried to smile back, but the muscles around his lips twitched like an electrical current. “There’s no point in being dramatic,” he whispered almost gently, as if he were lulling me to sleep. “Money isn’t a problem for you, is it?” Just then, far behind us, I heard footsteps and a cheerful female laugh. The waitress was leaning against the restaurant door, alongside the other girls on the staff. Her eyes met mine, a quiet determination in them—a strange empathy between unfamiliar
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