#9 
Angela was always the first to try something new. She always told people she was sick of the same old thing – sick of a world that never changed – that seemed better in old novels than it did live and in full color. She did what she could to spice it up. If they went to a Japanese restaurant, and everyone ordered sushi, she picked the one type no one had ever seen. If they went to Chinatown, she tried the seven organ soup; in little Italy it was various blends of octopus and spicy sauce.
She often thought that if she had any sense, she’d turn that part of her off when it came time to visit a new bar, but of course it never happened. There was always a line of bottles behind the bar, some coated in dust, some green and blue and pink, and there was always at least one special drink that the bartender knew of that no one had heard of. Always.
Still, when she and Ginny found the tiny little club tucked away at the bottom of a shadows stairway at the side of the street, it looked harmless. Old blues music was playing on a juke box so old it looked like it belonged in an antique shop. The records were 78rpm and huge, and it only cost a nickel a song. The bar gleamed – some dark polished wood that defied identification.
Angela decided that it was a strange, charming little place, and that she loved it, before she even stepped up to the bar. The man behind it was something different. He stood only about four feet tall. His eyes were very long – like a cat’s – and his smile reminded her of the way they always drew Peter Lorre in cartoons, too wide with white, fish-lips. Still, he blended right into the atmosphere, and if he’d started to snivel like Renfield from the original Dracula movie she was afraid she might have clapped in delight.
He did not. He smiled at them with eerily white teeth gleaming. “May I help you ladies?” His voice was sing-song, musical and bright, and it wouldn’t have mattered what she thought of the place before she heard it, Angela knew she would have smiled. Ginny was smiling too, and sliding onto a stool.
“I’ll have a beer,” Ginny said. “Very tall, and very cold.”
The little man bowed and grabbed a tall pilsner glass. As he poured, leaving a perfect foam head on the beer, he watched Angela.
“And for you?”
She was at it already. The normal assortment of bottles lined the counter behind the bartender, and she scanned it, almost frantic to find something else. She started at one end and paced up and down the bar like a cat, glancing into corners and nooks. There was whiskey, schnapps, cognac and wine, but she found nothing that caught her eye. There was even a bottle of Absinthe, but it was the same old green fairy she’d seen a million times – the watered down, legal US version of a drink lost to history.
“Don’t you have anything else?” she asked, spinning to meet the little man’s gaze. “I don’t see anything I want. I like to be surprised. I like something new each time. Every time.”
The little man nodded. He set the beer in front of Ginny, who was shaking her head and rolling her eyes at her friend.
“One moment,” he said. He turned and stepped through a set of beaded curtains. Moments later, he returned. In his hand, he held a bottle that was pitch black. There was no label. The cork had been removed. He also held a black snifter. With a flourish, he tipped the bottle and poured. Angela tried to lean closer and get a look, to see what he had, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make out any details. It was so dark it looked like oil, or poured obsidian.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Mystery,” he said simply. He pushed the goblet closer and smiled again. “On the house.”
Angela stared at the drink. She wrapped her fingers around it and gasped. It was cold as ice. He must have chilled the glass. She lifted it and held it under her nose, but there was absolutely no scent. Nothing. She felt the liquid slosh.
Ginny was watching her intently over the rim of her beer.
Angela closed her eyes and lifted the drink to her lips. She tipped it and swallowed. She shivered as it ran down the back of her throat, like liquid ice. It tasted wonderful, and at the same time it seemed to have no taste at all. She set it on the bar and opened her eyes.
Ginny was gone, but a man in a black fedora sat beside her. The music was the same, but somehow it seemed clearer- less tinny. She looked around the room, which had grown hazy, and saw that it wasn’t empty after all. It was filled with moving, dancing bodies, loud laughing voices, and light. She rose slowly, but her legs wouldn’t support her, and she fell against the stranger’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, “you okay, babe?”
She glanced around, supporting her weight on the bar. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, but she nodded. “I think I am,” she said.
He turned to face her, and he had a wide, bright smile that caught the light brilliantly. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.
She returned his smile. “Mystery,” she replied. “It’s mystery.”
On the juke box, a song she’d never heard was played to her soul.
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
