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    Summary

    Rozanov sidled up to the sink and caught Shane’s eyes in the mirror as he wet his hands under the spray, “Having fun, Hollander?”

    “Yeah, um. You?” Shane suddenly regretted all the drinks. He felt too big for his own skin and here was Rozanov, looking like some sort of runway model in this dingy bar bathroom, the dim yellow light highlighting his cheekbones, making him look gaunt and angelic.

    “Yes. Many nice looking people here,” Rozanov said, crowding Shane into the paper towel dispenser, under the guise of reaching behind him to grab one and dry his hands, “Your cheeks are very pink.” He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the trash can.

    “Yeah that uh, happens when I drink, sometimes,” Shane said, looking somewhere around Rozanov’s left shoulder.

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