Despite its paint-chipped exterior and rust-laden hinges, the door still opened with ease into the cramped, black-stained vestibule beyond. Stepping inside, I wiped the back-alley filth from my shoes onto a dingy and fraying rug which hadn't moved in decades. I recalled it being golden in color at one point but as a perceptive man once wrote, nothing gold can stay — and that goes doubly for things as lowly as doormats.
Turning to my left, I met eyes with the bouncer I knew was sitting behind the one-way mirror on the wall. This mirror was flanked by stained brass sconces fixed with dim candelabra bulbs that cast just enough light to reveal that my tie needed adjusting. I squared my stance, slowly leaned in, and stretched out a single finger towards my reflection to wipe away a bit of dust. I could feel the unease so close behind the glass as I then reached up and gave my Windsor knot a gentle tug. I could sense the tension behind the mirror subside as I adjusted my cufflinks and took a step back for final inspection. I was now ready for the evening's delights.
As I stepped around the corner and into the main room, the essence of wayward beer, nicotine ash, and finely aged despair embraced me - the signature perfume of some demented genius living in a basement somewhere on the fringe of society. Although I had known this brand of scent to be quite ubiquitous, I still found it tantalizing; its nuance differing from place to place.
This room itself was well-proportioned and quaint, but the ever-present ghosts of sordid deeds and painful memories created a manifest crampiness. This wasn't the place you went for a simple drink and company unless the drink was for drowning and the company was bad. The vintage dark wood floor was worn clean like a yellow brick road leading directly to a woman in a weathered emerald leather anchor chair at the far corner of the bar.
It was hard to determine if it was her disposition or posture which was sadder, so I ruled it a tie. She swirled a neat highball of low-grade whisky with her left hand while her right spidered up and through her unkempt raven bob. She sported a grim-paletted makeover born of dollar-store splurging and unconfident application with finishing touches provided by the back of her mascara-stained wrist.
I stole up to the chair beside her and with a magician's gesture I coaxed the barkeep to conjure a pair of whatever it was she was drinking. Conscripting a resistant shred of gratitude, she cocked her head and presented a strained grin. She may not have believed she wanted company this evening, but her pupils dilated all the same when her eyes fell into my gaze and motioned for me to sit beside her.
I was perfect tonight, earning my stripes anew as a master craftsman of seduction. Once again would these hallowed walls bear silent witness to my prowess as I would bear witness to another wretched soul's ultimate tithe.
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