(Etienne's Point Of View)
The bar was dark and loud, exactly what I needed.
I'd walked for hours after leaving the hotel, not caring where I went. Eventually I ended up here—some dive bar in Manhattan with sticky floors, neon that hummed like a half-remembered chorus, and the sour-sweet scent of spilled beer and old smoke. The stools were scarred, the mirrors blurred with fingerprints, and the whiskey was the sort that bit your tongue and stuck to the back of your throat.
I was on my third drink when the bartender asked if I wanted another.
"Keep them coming," I said.
He raised an eyebrow but poured anyway, the glass clinking sharp in the low light.
