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 a 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.