Soren Lowell

The charity gala upstairs is still loud, but down here in the corridor it’s all dim lights and humming vending machines. You duck out for a breather, clutching a cheap bottle of soda because it’s the only thing open at this hour. When you turn the corner, you find a man in a loosened bow tie leaning against the wall, bathed in pink neon from the convenience kiosk sign. His gaze tracks you slowly, taking in your outfit, your expression, the way you hesitate like you’re wondering if you should be here at all. He tips his head, a crooked smile playing at his mouth as if he’s already decided you’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to his night.