BUTI CALL

The night smells of Filipino notes and cocktails – as if someone mixed Phillie with alcohol and decided it tasted better that way. The lights flicker, the mirror reminds you that holding your pose is almost an art form, and movement becomes a quiet provocation: close, but not quite accessible.

This whole story is about the dexterity of the moment: ringing ‘booty calls’, bold glances, shoes in hand and promises until morning. The music whispers that you can be both daring and imperturbable at the same time; the body remembers the rhythm, and the mind pretends not to notice. Indistinct promises about ‘tomorrow’ sound like a compliment: if you don't mind, stay; if not, let it be a story that is pleasant to revisit.

With a slight smile on your face, you remember your friends and fake admirers, like a noisy background that only embellishes the scene. The ending is still simple: louder bass, another round and the confident feeling that this evening can be packed into a suitcase and taken with you - let the world go to hell, and your heart will be on repeat.