His English wasn't good enough for nuances.
"What's your relationship with Sam?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the friend she had come in with. She was caught off guard by the question.
"Oh nothing!" she said, but the words came out too quickly. She should have ignored the question, pretended that the music was too loud for her to hear it. She changed the subject by asking for a cigarette.
"We can smoke it together," he said, opening the pack to reveal his last butt, and smiling. He hadn't said share, which implied taking turns. He'd said together. There was no question in his statement, although afterwards he looked a little shy as if he knew that he had said something too forward.
She felt obliged to be coy even though his limited language skills forced him to be honest. She wasn't used to being the coy one. She wondered if he understood her subtle flirting. She wanted to ask him if he would go home with her. She wondered if she would have the courage to invite him upstairs with some sort of nicety. Would he understand the implications of an invitation for coffee? Or a smoke?
When they were separated, by people, he would sometimes turn to look at her. To see where she was, what she was doing. He brushed her hand too deliberately when he passed her a bottle of water. She was guilty too. She took the excuse of asking him for cigarettes even though she did not smoke.
He was gone out of her sight for a moment. Disappeared to the bathroom. A spell was broken. She could think about him objectively. In fact, he was not that good-looking. He was too skinny. If they had children together, they’d be bony. His face was too pretty, too delicate. If he were hit accidentally, she felt that his whole nose might just shatter right off his face, into pretty china pieces on the floor.
Then the thought passed. The swell inside rose again. He must be nearby, shooting off pheremones towards her as if she was standing in the stream of a humidifier. She was wrong. He would taste sweet. He would be clean and slender. His hands would touch her secret parts like a sculptor molding a piece of clay.