Dies Irae

There really is just something about dingy dive bars that hits just right. Ask anyone and they would agree that there was a strange allure in leaning over a grimy counter that hadn't had a proper cleaning in who knows how long. A smoky haze in the air that clings to hair and clothing, a distinct stickiness to the floors that would be audible if it wasn't for the crappy oldies playing out of blown out speakers.

The bass in the back alley dump was shit but the music wasn't half bad at the little hole in the wall I had taken refuge in. Something old and jazzy that I half recognized, humming tunelessly along between sips of a lukewarm cocktail. I'm pretty sure the garishly colored drink had a name with 'sex potion' in it but it was stronger than the bottled beers I had necked down with my friends earlier.

Friends I haven't seen in a hot minute, yelling something about grabbing some food off the carts a few blocks away. My phone was my lifeline as I scrolled mindlessly, not thrilled to be the odd woman out. Usually being left alone in a place like this would be mildly nerve wracking, if not entirely panic inducing, but the alcohol made me gutsy.

So much so that I couldn't stop blatantly checking out the man a few stools down. If someone placed a gun to my head and demanded I choose a type, my life would flash before my eyes before I could possibly decide.

What could I say? I knew it when I saw it.

And the dodgy guy glaring into a glass of amber liquor was unequivocally it. Moon-pale skin riddled with scars, shaggy dark hair, heavy combat looking clothing that was struggling to contain the sheer mass of him. He should be frightening; too big, too masculine, too dangerous.

But he was so damn broad, and even sitting down he looked tall enough to dwarf me. And not in that bullshit frat boy way either - like if he stood up, he would come perilously close to brushing the low, water stained ceiling. The drink he's nursing is laughably small in his large hands, something he could crush with the slightest flex of those thick fingers...

I glance away quickly, honestly shocked that he didn't feel the way I was boring holes in the side of his head with my obvious leering. Hopefully the menacing aura he radiated blocked it out. Something about him reminded me of some great beast, prowling in a cage and biding its time until someone was foolish enough to let it off the leash.

God, I wanted to sidle up next to him. See if he smelled as dangerous as he looked, like the crackling ozone before a storm. He kind of seemed like the brooding type, so maybe like fresh coffee and cigarette smoke. After another sidelong glance at the scar at the corner of his mouth, I nervously reconsidered.

A man with serial killer vibes that intense would probably smell of gun oil and the rusty tang of spilled blood. Metallic and heavy on the tongue. Either way, I still desperately wanted to find out, to lick up the side of his strong neck and sink my teeth in the tendons there.

Squirming on the stool, I wave the bartender over. Everything about that man screamed sex and danger. He was so far out of my league it was unimaginable even as a fantasy.

I was just drunk and fanciful, it was the middle of the night, and I needed to find my friends. Eat some greasy food made in a questionable cart and hopefully remember to wash my face before passing out in my cozy bed.

Not entertain the thought of flirting with some random older guy who probably had a few kids he didn't even know about. No one would ever claim I had good taste. Most of my friends and family would vociferously protest the opposite, actually.

The oddly sweet, yet visually intimidating bartender handed back my card with a small smile. I was thankful, positive he had been keeping an eye on me all night. A young woman sitting alone at the bar was a temptation most men couldn't resist and yet no one had bothered me while I waited.