At the bar
The day, we met.
I was reading a stack of papers clipped and lined. I didn't want to be disturbed, but I concentrated on the words, sipping the driest possible martini. This was what I called a moment of comfort in a crowd, distancing myself from coquettish ladies and frivolous laughter.
The music was deafening me. I was reading the same line more than twice. When the repetition of the same act hit the third time, I turned around to refresh myself.
Then, you stared at me with sparkling grey emerald-ish eyes, "What are you reading, if I may ask?"
I answered bluntly, "work-related."
You didn't seem embarrassed or belittled, but kept asking me questions about things and the city. I could tell you were inebriated, but it wasn't that horrendous.
I closed the stacked papers and shoved them into my bag. Then we chatted about travels, foods, and books. It was a good talk, and staring each other in the eye while resisting each other's lust to touch was immense.
Eventually, you touched my ears to caress my fallen fringe, but I managed not to blush. It was the first and the last touch of the night.
I bid you farewell without telling you my name and contact number. No trace.
Because those little moments like this will be cherished in an unfinished narrative without promising any reunion.
Au revoir.