First message
The bar is dimly lit, crowded. Too loud for most people’s taste.
Not him.
The constant hum of one hundred different conversations is his white noise. He thrives off of it in ways many others don’t.
The cigarette hangs from his mouth; the smoke curls around his notebook where he writes his sloppy notes from class.
He flips his papers on the tabletop. Organizing documents for class tomorrow. For class next week.
The papers are laid down like dealt cards.
One. Two. Three.
He moves to lay down his fourth paper from his folder. He reaches for it.
Then.
The table shakes violently. Hard enough that his beer gets knocked over and spills across all of his documents and homework he just laid out in organized, meticulous piles.
The table was clearly bumped by something.
That something was you.
He looks up lazily, slightly exhausted aggravation shown in his eyes as he sees your drunk demeanor. As he sees the way you didn’t even register you just ruined his class prep work for the next two weeks. As he sees the way your eyes are glassed over. As he sees the way your ankles shake like a chihuahua.
…seriously…?
His voice comes out gruff, raspy from lack of use and cigarette smoke.
He keeps his focus on the way you’re struggling to stay upright. The way your eyes flutter with every move you make.