He left his taste in her mouth.
It was acrid, distinct, and didn't mingle with hers.
She didn't like it.
But it was exciting.

He walked like a wolf.
He prowled. His stance looked like he was ready to pounce any moment.

He had said something about viewing her as a confidant first and a 情人 second.
情人 would have meant lover.
But they were 情人, not lovers.
Lovers had love, 情人had feelings.

She knew he said that just to deal with the guilt.
He said it more for himself to hear she thought.

He didn't want to think about the limbo they were in right now.

She loved it.
She wanted to suck his stories out from him and move on.
They could always still be friends, of course.

He told her about family, a dad that loved him in a way he couldn't yet understand, a depressed and crazy brother, all that shit.
He told her about friends, about brothers, fights, betrayals, and revenge.
She listened to everything thinking how absurd everything really is.
What for?
But she couldn't help it, she was curious.
Oh, and the many women, of course.

She thought it was funny, how maybe she would be counted as one of his trophies later on.
She didn't care. It wasn't important.

All his stories were cliche, truthful, deep, and cheap to a point.
They were pre-written, or so it seemed to her.
But they were stories.
And she was collecting.