The Blacklist is a TV series, the actress mentioned in the story is Rachel Brosnahan.
This story might have some plot holes or factual errors. This is a fictional story after all. If you want to nit-pick on it, fine, do so. All characters are over 18 years of age.
-
I never did like clubs. Neither did my friends, but they all went anyways for the promise of tail. However, after last night... no, my opinion remains unchanged on the subject. But it was a good night.
It was Friday night, after a long, stressful week of work at our firm. A friend of a friend was going clubbing, next thing you know, the group of us are all going clubbing. Peer pressure does miracles.
'It'll be fun, bro!' The friend of a friend pat me on the back. 'Hey, you might even get laid! This place is real underground, not your average scene, dude!' He laughed. Yeah, right. I didn't even know what an "average scene" was.
'Yeah, let's do this bro!' I replied with false enthusiasm. You gotta feed their bro-meter.
The group of the five, maybe six of us entered the club via an inconspicuous door, the only sign of it being a club at all is the bouncer guarding the door. Maybe he's right, maybe this isn't the average scene. Or maybe it is. I haven't seen the inside of a club since college.
It is at this point I'll tell you that they played classical music and an Italian man is on the stage singing opera. No, of course not, they played the typical house music or some form of dubstep, I couldn't tell, it was nearly deafening. As I predicted, my friends all went to chat up potential mating partners. I sat down in the quieter side of the club, with a couple of unoccupied round booths, you know, those circular ones. Rare find in a busy club. Then I realized something was missing from my night: my piΓ±a colada to sip on. Or any edible drink, since that is just a figure of speech. Regardless, I went to the bar in search of one.
'Shaken, not stirred.' I shouted to the bartender, who was chatting to a patron.
'Sorry?' The bartender shouted, upon acknowledging my existence. Upon realising how awkward that sounded, I was glad she didn't catch that.
'Um, martini, please.' I looked in my wallet only to find no smaller currency than $20 note. She, in turn, served me two martinis. Guess I forgot to specify how many. And only two for a twenty? Jesus.
Upon returning to my booth, I discovered an uninvited guest. She wore an unusual flower dress, straps around her shoulders, which caught my attention. Most club-goers around these parts wore short skirts with the hemlines up to their panties. Sometimes there aren't even undergarments to speak of.
'Hey, this is my booth.' I shot off rather impolitely.
'Does it have your name on it?' She replied. I sighed and was about to turn away to one of the many other booths, when she called out. 'You can stay if you hand me that glass. Looks like you're not using it anyways.' Ouch. She pointed at my extra martini.
'Why not.' I shrugged and sat next to her, beginning to notice her beauty. 'What's a girl like you doing alone here?'
'What's a guy like you doing alone here?' She replied. Although there was a simple reason why I'm here alone.
'Do you have to answer every one of my questions with another?''
'I don't know, do I? Alright, alright, I'll stop.' She chuckled. 'Here.' She extended her hand for a handshake.
'Tim.' I said, shaking her hand. Despite her playing hard-to-get, I found myself incredibly relaxed around her. Not nervous and jittery or anxious, not trying to regulate my breath, just being my normal self, having a normal conversation.
'Rachel.' Her wavy, smooth, hazel brown hair glinted against the club's lighting above the dancefloor.
'So, let me rephrase my question.' I said. 'What's a pretty girl like you doing alone here?'
'Oh, just living the single life. You?'
'All my friends are out there, tryin'a pick up some chicks. I'm not into clubbing, rocking out, all that.'
'Me neither.' She took a sip from her drink. Or my drink. Whatever.
'Wanna get outta here?' I took a large gulp from my drink. Bottoms up.
'Now who's trying to pick up chicks?' She quipped. We chuckled, and Rachel looked towards the exit. 'Alright, look, this might be clichΓ©, but can we get out the back door?' She asked.
'ClichΓ© is right. Why, are you famous or something?' If she was, her face would be worthy of Hollywood praise, red lipstick on what I imagined will be very soft, warm lips.