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8 part thrilla.... I even kinda like it even if realizing it could have been written better in some better conditions:

And when she was stepping out... The sky froze like a scoreboard on Dnepropetrovsk's website . High, black boots. Very high. Shoe-laced - no zipping. Black fishnet tights. Jeans skirt. Very short. Cream-coloured shirt, closely touching the body. Black coat. Black, straightened hair. Black eyes... predicting getting the target within minutes. With every quick step she made, every shake of the hair, every person passed by, she got people stuck and stoned. Killing.
She walked next to mister Hitler and the mysterious young man, without spending a fleeting glance on them. She sat on the armchair at the opposite corner of the hall, took out the copybook from the bag and pretended to be occupied with any random writing as much as her life depended on it. She could see the back of the mysterious guy and it was easy to notice he was turning his head back with the repeatable record of Zabaleta beating the ass out of Lapentti. George W. Hitler has noticed something is seriously distracting his interlocutor, so stated few last thoughts and left, after a handshake.
The left-alone interlocutor took a look at the girl. The distance of 15 metres seemed to be a safe one. But not when she has obtained a patent on innocent smiles whipped with a wee bit of pervertion. Impossible not to smile back. Hmm, what could that girl be thinking about? About her writing? Nah, about me, I guess!
How typical for a self-confident guy, absolutely assured of his own uniqueness. But even the undoubtful vanity of mister “I can be only in love with myself and the compliments I get” couldn't force him to make the first step. That girl was just intimidating. After few minutes of pretending he was waiting for something/someone never to show up, he choked his chewing gum (why to bother throwing it to the bin) and pretending totally uninterested in her slowly walked over and..... discredited his potential creativity by asking:
- What are you writing?
Nathaliia had some cornier talks prepared:
- Describing what we will be doing together tonight.
- And what's that? - he crouched in front of Nathii and looked into her eyes. Soon to be regreted. These eyes were magnetic.
- I can't tell you, I'm too decent to speak about so kinky things, you know – she acted a blushing schoolgirl. - But I think I could moderate your hand all over my body on a puprose of s-h-o-w-i-n-g you what I mean – added with a confidential smile.
This novelist is a female so she can't know what a man feels in such a moment, but she makes a wild guess he wants sex. Now!!!
- Haha... and you don't even know my name...
- I could guess it... from your eyes – she cut and bent over him. - But for the sake of dialogue... it's you who should tell me this anyway.
He was only able to mumble with half-closed eyes: My name is Genci, I am 24 years old, I come from Albania and I've just graduated from medicine. And I have a girlfriend so we can only be friends.
Nathii didn't feel like sharing too much of personal information and didn't care much about his last note. Threw briefly:
- Nathaliia, from Poland. As for my age I'm young enough to be a minx and old enough to be responsible for my saying. I must leave now, but if you kiss me on a cheek, it means we're going out at midnight.
And Genci did kiss her.
Nicole, still standing at the reception desk, couldn't believe the development of situation. What the hell, who the hell and how... the fuck?
- Our d-e-a-l. Guys can be played anywhere, anyhow... is he still sitting on the floor, by the way? - Nathii giggled.
- He is.... - Nikki couldn't help the laughter as well. - Okay, I am waiting here for Tom to appear. Time to change our relationshit into a relationship. Ah, and good luck to you... with... HIM.
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