Imperfect

Six - Alyssa

"You're kidding?" I said, hopefulness dripping from my tone as I stared up at the building across the street.

We'd taken a cab across the city, leaving the Upper East side and crossing the bridge to Brooklyn. And now, I stood in front of a sketchy looking building with a sign above the door that had clearly eroded over the years, leaving only a few letters of the name - an 'E', 'A' and 'W' - of the establishment visible.

"We passed some of the best restaurants in the world on the way here and this is where you choose?" I curled my lip, eyeing Callan cautiously. He must've gone insane to want to eat here. With the state of the outside of the building, I couldn't imagine that the staff here followed the hygiene code.

"This place is good," he said, crossing the street, "trust me."

I didn't. Not in the slightest. "I'm not going in there."

He shrugged, continuing forwards anyway. "Then wait out here."

I turned from left to right. To my left, a gaggle of young teenage boys stood smoking joints, there wide, bloodshot eyes fixated on me. To the right, a little down the road, were a group of police officers making an arrest. The thought of being left alone out here made me shudder and that was the only reason I followed Cal into the most disgusting place I'd ever set foot.

There wasn't a doorman to let us in. Instead, Cal pushed on the large door with the paint scratched off and strolled in. I darted in, letting the door slam shut behind me – I didn't want to touch anything if I could help it.

"Cal?" An older looking man said.

His dark skin was crinkled around his face and those lines only became more distinct when he smiled. "It's good to see you again, I was starting to think someone had killed you."

Cal laughed beside me and stepped up to pat the man on the back. His whole body jolted from the force but he didn't bat an eye. "Not yet," Callan chuckled, "you got a table for us."

The man's eyes slid over to me and narrowed. "She's with you?"

I shifted uncomfortably. The place was dark, so dark it had taken a moment for my eyes to adjust. The carpeted floors were a deep red with stains permanently etched into them. The walls were black and covered in black and white paintings of cars and people and buildings. All around the bar were small tables and chairs, most of which were occupied with the kind of people you'd expect to find in a crumbling building like this.

Old men sat around the bar, pints of drink in their hands. Families with squawking children in cheap clothing, teenagers in ripped jeans and younger men in large groups, gathered around one of the many screens showing a football match. Every now and then, they'd cheer and holler something, drowning out the horrible high-pitched screaming of children and the terrible rock music blasting from the speakers.

"Follow me," the man said, craning his neck to the left. We started following him, weaving through the tables until we reached a small, secluded booth at the back. "Here," he said, "just come up to the bar when you're ready to order."

I frowned as he walked away. "Don't they have waiters?"

Callan shook his head. "Not that kind of place."

I surveyed the area where we were sat. The booth was shredded, the yellow stained foam spilling out of the cracks in the red material. Food was trodden into the carpet and underneath our table was a pile of fries.

Reluctantly, I slid onto the seat opposite Callan and slid off my coat. "They don't even have a coat room," I muttered in disgust, having to ball it up and put it on the seat next to me.