The bar is dimly lit and sparsely populated as I step inside, and I'm sure if I turned on the worklights I can just about see hidden behind the tacky hanging light fixtures that look like they haven't been updated since the 1970s, I'd see a quarter-inch thick patina of spilled booze and fryer grease and good old-fashioned grime coating every surface. It's almost enough to make me turn back around and climb back up the crumbling concrete stairs to street level and find a dive bar that's maybe ten percent less divey... but then I remember what Annika told me, and I gingerly pick my way around the holes in the worn-out carpeting to belly up to the bar.
Before I have a chance to so much as open my mouth, though, one of the very few patrons scoots back his chair and sits down next to me. "Hey Tiny!" he shouts, calling to a guy behind the bar who's about six-foot-four with thinning carrot-colored hair and a walrus mustache that makes him look like the guy from 'Mythbusters' gone to seed. "Shot of Jack for me, and the lady here is going to have an Orange Blossom Special." He looks over at me and gives me a smug grin that I can tell he thinks is supposed to be cocky and confident and charming instead of just kind of obnoxious.
For a moment I almost turn it down, even though it's exactly what I was about to order and it's the drink Annika said makes this scuzzy little hole in the ground dive bar worth going to. I don't like it when men buy me drinks--they always seem to think it obligates me to them, and this guy looks like he's going to be patronizing as it is. He's handsome, sure, with raven-dark hair and a tiny bit of dark stubble dusting his perfectly-sculpted chin, but he also gives off the vibe of one of those guys who thinks that being handsome and maybe a little bit of a smooth talker is enough to coast on. I got over guys like that back in college.
But I also know it's going to be impossible for me to turn down his offer and then order the exact same thing he ordered for me without him making a whole big thing of it, so I decide to go with the flow for just a little while as Tiny begins mixing my drink. "So what brings a pretty young thing like you into a place like this?" he asks me, clearly not noticing my tight smile and averted gaze. This had better be one hell of a special special, or Annika's going to have a lot of explaining to do when I see her next.
"Friend of mine told me about the place," I reply, trying to keep my response as curt and perfunctory as possible to cut off any further possibility of conversation. "Said it was a dump, but the drinks were good." That wasn't exactly what Annika told me, but I don't really see any point in going into it with some guy who still thinks that dressing like Bruce Springsteen is the height of fashion. Hell, the way his scruffy, beat-up old jean jacket looks, it might have been bouncing in and out of thrift stores ever since 'Darkness on the Edge of Town'.
Not that he looks that old. It's hard to tell in the dim light, but I'd peg him at maybe forty. Right on the edge of my limit for older guys, not that I'm here to hook up with anybody. I'm just here for the--
Tiny sets down a glass in front of me, and for a moment my whole train of thought locks up in astonishment as the scent hits my nostrils. It's sweet, but somehow not cloying, and I can smell a tiny hint of that bitter-green backnote that reminds me of newly growing spring plants. There's a single white petal floating on top of the cream-colored liqueur, but the aroma can't be coming from that alone--it's filling my lungs, borne up to me by the volatile alcohol as it dissipates, and all I can think of for a moment is that it reminds me so much of Annika's perfume.
