Personal Narrative: A Story Of Hell In A Bar

Decent Essays
It's late July, and it's hotter than hell in Austin, but I'm okay. I'm sitting in a back booth in a cave of a bar on South Congress, staying AC cool. I've never been here before, but I feel right at home, absorbing the darkness and quiet jazz, and inhaling that beer-and-bourbon smell you only find in really good, really old dives. The SoCo hipsters won't come near the joint, because they can't get an Appletini. And I don't think this bar would work at all in California. It's not a place for white wine pansies. Nary a corkscrew to be found. Hell, it's never seen a bottle that needed one. Good beer, good vodka, and about 83 different kinds of Bourbon, Scotch and tequila. Brodie said to meet him here. I admit he has good taste in bars. He must have hung out at one like this back in Glasgow.

The two week job I just
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It was cold, with extra olives because I like the salty taste, like sweat on skin. I knocked back the last drops and held up my glass to the bartender. She hadn't taken her eyes off me since I walked in. It might have been because my left thigh was creating a scene through the slit in the skirt. Whatever it was, the attention was mutual. She had soft curves and the kind of thick raven hair you can get a grip on. At one time they said the average Austin cocktail waitress has an MA in Literature. This one is a bartender who likes women, so maybe she's got a PhD.

I was thinking about asking her if she wanted to do some serious sweating, when I got distracted. Here came Brodie walking in, looking like the second coming of kick-ass. Michelangelo must have poured him into that Western shirt. His boots were well-scuffed and his jeans were faded and tight, but not too. Rowdy women know what I mean; tight enough to give a girl some delicious thoughts, but not so tight they're hard to peel off. Brodie made a helluva cowboy to look at. He wasn't a bad ride; he knew my triggers. And I could listen to his Lowland Scot accent all fuckin'
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