He paused in his steps, even if all that he desired was to flee like a coward with his tail between his legs. Her voice was not yelling, it was not indignant, but still the man did not turn. Still he did not look back at her, even if it would be a look of apology. There were things he felt he had to do, if he wanted to have any sort of intimate relationship with anyone. And now, he felt he had skipped so many crucial steps that if it were a cake, it would come out as boiling soup. Anatoliy felt that he had made the biggest mistake, letting drink weaken his inhibitions and morals and ideals to the point where he would just jump. He was a man who liked to take things slow, but still in an ordered way. Anatoliy was not akin to his father; there could only ever be a single woman for him.
Fool, he chastised himself, fully aware he was not sober if his vision held any indication to his state of intoxication. Coward. The Russo just wanted to tell her his feelings, to demand she tell him what she thought of him. But he could not face Anann, even though he had noticed she had not pulled away, but nor had she reacted to him. Anatoliy mistook her pleased surprise for confusion and shock. Even though he was fully an adult, he felt like such an inexperienced child now. His slightly inebriated mind began to pull together strands of thoughts into a mess; maybe he had misread the signs? Maybe he moved to fast? (Even though, he honestly wanted to move faster with Anann than he had ever imagined.)
No. He would run, and then blame his actions on the drink they shared. That would work, right? "I... should still go back. I might be missed zhere." He knew his excuse was flimsy; he would never have visited if he would have been preoccupied later that day. "I vill see you later, Anann," he muttered, voice soft as he spoke her name. Now his feet unlocked and he moved away from the woman rising to reach out for him. But he did not see it, having never looked back to see her grasping hands.
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