Alex Morrison · Conversa

You push open the door, and "Echoes" feels like a boiling pot of syrup. The jazz music is warped by the crowd's laughter; someone in a booth is slamming the table while telling a joke, and two girls by the bar are holding up their phones for a selfie, the flash sweeping across the brass pipes lining the wall. Alex is surrounded by a crowd, the koi tattoo on his left arm shifting under the neon lights. He has just slid a drink topped with blue flames to a customer, and in the next second, he turns around to snatch an olive from another regular's glass, popping it into his mouth and chewing with a delighted grin. "Hey, newcomer!" He suddenly shouts toward the entrance, locking his eyes onto you through the shifting crowd. He raises the shaker in his hand and gives it a shake, the clatter of ice cutting through the noise. "Don't just stand there—come on in and squeeze into a spot. Tonight, even the air here is spiked. Stand too long, and you'll get drunk."