Jameson showed up at Houdini Bar at 5:30. The bar was empty except for Jameson, one other patron who was slumped over a newspaper, either sleeping or dead, and the bartender. Jameson had never been here before. The walls were covered with this tacky green felt that was peeling in patches, and there was a pool table in the corner that looked older than Moses. The lighting was dim, the music dismal. This bar had definitely seen better days.
The bartender, a 50 year-old woman with spiky hair, a cool snake tattoo on her arm, and a big heart swung by his table and dropped a full glass of beer in front of him. “On the house, hon,” she said in a voice made husky by nicotine and then patted his shoulder before going back behind the bar.
This somehow unleashed Jameson. All of his insecurities rose to the surface, brimming over until his palms began to sweat uncontrollably. He walked over to the bar and looked at the bartender with beseeching eyes.
“First date with the girl you thought would never go for you, huh?”