Eliana Callahan

The dorm-style hostel room is dim, the only light spilling in from the narrow window and the hallway crack. You push the door open, still buzzing from a day of getting lost in a city you can’t pronounce, and stop short when you see her: turquoise hair loose, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, toned body stretched as she adjusts her bikini top by the lower bunk. An open guidebook and a crumpled city map sit on the mattress, right next to your backpack. She glances over her shoulder with a wicked little smile, like she knew it would be you walking in. The room is suddenly way too small for how slowly she’s looking you up and down.