Flash Fiction #3 Love Potion

Spook

By green_mic

Have you ever noticed how locations carry distinct smells? An old classroom will have your nose sneeze at the chalk dust in the air in which lingers whiffs of spilled ink and untold sorrow. A favourite restaurant will comfort you with its sauteed onions, herbs fragrance, and familiar welcomes. A grandmother's home will drown you in sweetness from its plum jams, warm bread and holidays, light years away from the stench of a white-collar workplace reeking of crisp paper, expensive cologne and petty dogfights.

Placing the card on the digital lock, the visitor inhaled deeply, in anticipation of nostalgic aromas. He knew exactly what the Spook smelled like. His tongue remembered the taste of liquid lust sloshing within martini glasses, of Givenchy gloss and bitter tears. Though whether they were his own or someone else's, he didn't recall.

After all, no one needed to remember heart breaks.

The soles of his brand new Hereu loafers clattered on the faux marble meant to grant the place the prestige such establishments often lacked. The cheap leather scent oozing out of the dozen love seats girding the dance floor hit him without warning. More memories emerged, of people casually smooching to the rhythm of some David Guetta trap remix, unconcerned by the fact that they provided distraction to the dancing patrons.

The stench of flirty sweat was, however, long gone, thankfully replaced by—almond blossom softener? That was new.

The odd fragrance gracing the otherwise stuffy air of the abandoned nightclub suggested it was, in fact, hardly vacant. Suspicions were soon confirmed by the discovery of boxers, socks and other items hanging from a clothesline strung above the empty dance floor, like ghastly fairy lights swaying in the dark.

Fitting ornaments for a place modelled after Chillingham Castle, one of Britain's most haunted manor.

What kind of ghost wore Calvin Klein briefs though?

The answer soon stepped out of the shadows, toothbrush in hand, hair barely combed and eyes bulging. "M-may I help you?"

"Are these yours," the visitor asked, pointing at the drying laundry above them.

"I'm sorry but, who are you?"

Ah. Yes. Manners. "My name is Kim Taehyung and I just stepped out of the real estate office that sold me this place, including anything found on the premises. In other words, if these are yours, they are now mine."

"What?"

"This is the Spook, is it not? Overpriced drinks? Cute bartenders? Crowded dance floor?"

Colour was draining from the face of the young squatter faster than it took Taehyung to claim ownership of all his belongings, along with the roof over his head. "You forgot to mention the bad press that led to its shutting down," he reminded him quietly, having nothing left to lose at this point.

"Right. Last year's Christmas party, was it?"

The young man somehow still had it in him to laugh because someone had decided it'd be funny to climb down the chimney in a Santa suit. Except they had got stuck midway because the shaft had never meant to be operational. The fireplace, like the faux marble, was purely decorative. That fact, however, did not stop the guy from suing the previous proprietor for the trauma caused by three long hours spent stuck inside a wall.

"Do you mind me asking what you are planning to do with this place?"

Taehyung walked over to the bar and, after a quick assessment, decided the stool was clean enough for him to sit on. "It would be nice to get it running again," he replied, fingers feeling the wood of the counter. "The Spook is such an iconic feature of Seoul's Night scene it would be a shame to see it perish, don't you think?"

"Does it matter, what I think?"

"I'm sorry but I did not get your name."

"I-I did not give it."

Taehyung saw panic take over the other's features. "Hey. It's fine. I'm not going to call the police or press charges against you for—trespassing."

"Thank you. I'll gather my things and be on my way."

"One second."

"Yes?"

"The bar is rather spotless for a place that's been closed for over a month."

"Professional quirk. I like to keep my work surface clean."

Taehyung's ears perked up at the information. "Do you bartend?"

"I do."

"Let's say I'm a client. What would you recommend I try?"

"Well, people say I make a mean Love Potion."

"Don't tell me that's the name of a drink."

Something sparkled in the young man's eyes. "I don't know when was the last time you visited the Spook but I can assure you it was one of my most requested drinks."

On the shelves, rows of bottles glimmered in the dimness, begging for attention. Who was Taehyung to deny them? "If you have all the ingredients ready, then I guess I'll give it a try."

The other was already reaching for the precious liquors. "I have a better idea. I'll give you my name and an LP and you get me that a job. I hear they're hiring at Spook II."

Without a single drop of alcohol in his system, Taehyung wondered where all the sudden giddiness came from. "Alright! Consider this your interview. Let's see what that potion is all about."

The bartender held out his hand. "Jeon Jungkook. Please to meet you."

–

The Spook doesn't smell of cheap leather any longer, and the flowery softener fragrance has been replaced by expensive perfumes and brandy. It's become tradition for Taehyung to have Jungkook's signature drink at least once a week, on less busy nights. An opportunity for him to scrutinize the man's every move in hopes of discovering the secret additive that has him fall harder for the man with every visit. And every sip.

And if he leans forward a little, he might even catch a whiff of almond blossoms, wondering when he became so addicted to it.