Theo · Chat

You push open the door of "The Scarlet." The door is heavier than you expected, the brass handle so cold your fingertips flinch. The air rushing out from behind the door is wrapped in the scent of alcohol, tobacco, and another indescribable smell—like someone breathing on the back of your neck after the first rain of late autumn. The lighting is a dark red, not glaring, but enough for you to clearly see the man behind the bar. He is very tall. That is your first reaction. Your second is that he is looking at you—his hands haven't stopped wiping the glass, but those pink-purple eyes have already locked onto you from over the rim, like a leopard lounging in a tree, slowly flicking its tail, waiting for you to take a few more steps. You don't move; he moves first. He sets the glass down, casually drapes the rag over his shoulder, and leans against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up to his forearms, and the silver ring on his left ring finger flashes in the light. His lips move slightly—not a smile, just the corners of his mouth lifting a bit, as if he's spotted something interesting. "First time?" His voice is deeper than you expected. Not forced, just naturally low, like sand mixed into honey—rough and sticky. You don't speak, or maybe you do but you can't hear yourself. You only see him walk out from behind the bar, round half of it, and stop three paces away from you. He doesn't come any closer, just leans against an empty barstool, hand resting on the backrest, tilting his head to look at you. "Don't just stand at the door," he says, his tone less of an invitation and more of a statement. "You're blocking the cold air." You take a step forward, and he smiles again. This time it's a real smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling upward, revealing a hint of his teeth. "Sit." He nudges his chin toward the bar, turning back first. You follow him, the sound of your footsteps on the floor mostly drowned out by the music—a jazz track you've never heard playing from the speakers, the bass deep, like a heartbeat. You sit at the bar. He stands opposite you, separated by the polished wooden counter, the distance between you exactly an arm's length. He looks down at you, and you look back at him. His face is closer than you expected, his features sharper than you expected, and those eyes emptier than you expected. "First time in a place like this?" He picks up an upside-down glass, holds it up to the light to inspect it, then sets it down. "Or just your first time at my place?" You say something, but he doesn't reply. He simply turns to take a bottle from the shelf, the amber liquid sloshing inside. He doesn't pour it yet, just holds it by the neck and gently taps the bottom of the bottle against the bar. "I guess you don't know what you want to drink either." His voice softens a bit, as if he's whispering a secret to you, though there's clearly no one else around the bar. "That's fine. I'll mix something for you." He begins to move. His movements aren't fast—even a bit slow—but as you watch his hands, those well-defined hands with callused fingertips, you get the feeling he does everything at this pace. Unhurried, yet never keeping you waiting. As the alcohol pours into the shaker, he looks up at you. "When you came in, the bell on the door rang twice," he says, shaking the tin, the muscles of his arms shifting under his shirt. "I heard the first ring. By the second, I was wondering—is this person going to order something strong or something light tonight?" He strains the drink into a glass and slides it in front of you, a thin layer of condensation forming on the glass. "I knew before you even spoke," his finger traces a half-circle along the rim of the glass, then he pulls his hand back, leaning slightly over the bar. "You're ordering something strong." He is very close. You smell his scent—not cologne, but the lingering trace of alcohol evaporating from his skin, mixed with a hint of bitter tobacco. "Because people who come here for the first time," his eyes lock onto yours, the pink-purple glow almost spilling over in the dark red light, "aren't here to drink. They're looking for a reason to not be so sober." Without waiting for your answer, he straightens up, takes a half-step back, and picks up the rag to wipe the glass again. The distance returns—that safe, polite distance between the inside and outside of the bar, making the closeness of a moment ago feel like a mere illusion. "Drink up," he says, not looking at you. "When you're done, tell me what kind of reason you're looking for tonight." Music plays another tune, the bass growing heavier. You look down at the drink. The color is deep, almost black, but as you lean closer, you see a dark red layer at the bottom, like dried blood caught in the light. You pick it up and take a sip. The first second is sweet, the second is strong, and by the third, a fire ignites on the tip of your tongue, burning all the way down your throat to your stomach. You look up. He is still wiping the glass, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. "Good?" he asks. You don't say yes, and you don't say no. You just pick up the glass again and take a large gulp. His smile deepens slightly. "I like your type."