Cola ordered cream pasta and a cold drink, stirring her straw absentmindedly. I glanced around and realized—with a flicker of amusement or maybe dread—that I was in the same restaurant where I'd once had a date with a woman whose name I still didn't know.
It had been a disaster.
And now, I was remembering the disaster.
"Thinking about something?" Cola asked, taking a slow sip of her drink through the straw.
Her choice was simple.
Cola.
"No," I muttered, tearing off a piece of plain bread from my plate. "Just recalling an awkward encounter."
She smirked faintly but said nothing, turning her attention back to her pasta.
"What's your real name?" I asked, watching her closely.
She didn't look up. "My name?" she echoed, twirling her fork in the creamy sauce. "Why do you wanna know? It's not important, is it?"
I took a slow sip of my cold coffee. "Maybe it is."
She chuckled under her breath, then tilted her head at me, eyes glinting with mischief. "What? Fond of a young whore?"
I pressed my lips together and rubbed my forehead.
"Don't tell me you like young girls. Do you?" She took another bite of pasta, raising an eyebrow, her expression almost taunting.
"Cola… take me as your…" I hesitated, searching for the right word—something that wouldn't set off a hotheaded nineteen-year-old.
She rolled her eyes. "Ugh, don't start this shit again." Setting her fork down, she leaned back in her chair. "I don't form special familial connections with my customers."
I exhaled slowly, retrieving a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it. "I can't help but feel responsible for you."
She smirked again—sharper this time, almost smug. "I know why you're doing this."
I exhaled, letting the smoke drift lazily into the heavy air. It was too hot to be smoking, and yet I couldn't stop.
"Do you?" I said slowly. "Even I don't know why I feel so protective toward…"
My voice trailed off as my eyes landed on the barely-there top she was wearing.
"…you."
She tilted her head, the smirk deepening. It was the kind of look that said she'd caught me—teasing, but with an edge.
"Sonia, isn't it?" she asked casually.
I sipped from my cold coffee, buying myself a second.
"Your sister?" I said, voice even. "She was a very attractive woman. Russians have… certain charms, don't they?"
The shift in her expression was instant.
Her playful mask shattered.
"I don't want to hear anything about Sonia from the mouth of a filthy man like you," she snapped.
The words were venomous, and her voice cracked just slightly.
I raised an eyebrow, trying to piece together the sudden hysteria. Without responding, I set the glass down and took another drag. The silence between us thickened again.
She grabbed her Cola and took a long sip, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with forced nonchalance.
"That your favorite drink?" I asked, without much thought.
"Yeah," she muttered, calmer now. "Pepsi Cola. To be specific."
So that's where the name came from—Cola. A strange mix of sweetness and sting.
My eyes drifted, almost unintentionally, to the red marks wrapping around her wrist.
They looked raw. Angry.
She noticed. Her posture stiffened. She pulled her arm under the table and fumbled with her bag, using it as a shield. It was bright, patterned in clashing reds and purples, but it did nothing to mask the damage beneath.
Too late. I'd seen them. And I wasn't about to pretend I hadn't.
"What are those?" I asked quietly.
She looked away. "Few bruises."
But they weren't few.
They were many.
And they were deep.
"They look deep and dense," I said, my tone steady. "Not few in any sense."
"Oh, is that so?" she snapped, voice laced with sarcasm, the edge in her tone sharper than the knife beside her plate.
I didn't respond to her mockery. There was no point.
"What are you going to do about it, huh? Pray tell—what can you do about it?" she added, eyes narrowing.
"I don't know," I said honestly, pulling a tissue from the stand and wiping my hands, more for something to do than necessity.
She scoffed, shaking her head. "See? You don't know anything about my life. And here you are, sitting across from me, interrogating like some detective." She leaned forward. "Let me be clear—I'm not a criminal."
"I know," I said quietly. "You're not capable of it."
The words barely left my mouth when she stood up, abrupt and fuming. She pulled out a few bills and threw them at me—one grazing my cheek, the others fluttering down like dead leaves.
Then she turned on her heels and stormed out. The sharp click of her stilettos echoed through the restaurant, each step louder than the last.
It all happened too fast.
Heads turned. Conversations slowed. I could feel the eyes on me, judgmental, curious, entertained.
I just sat there, still holding the crumpled tissue, staring at the door she'd disappeared through.
For someone who hated attention, I had just become the center of it. And I hated every second of it.