Scene 1

The lights all blended into one scene of a downtown mirage where the camels came to drink and the minds came to starve.  Pink, purple, illuminating lights blended together shining on heroes of fables not yet written. The  night became enough to now be considered a life form. The white Mazada of some design slick enough to garner not a name but just the eyes of suspecting passer bys pulled under the arch and into the aura of the partial conceived night. The young night offered the man with a stubble and the black blazer a chance to escape and sell the fruits of his labor from the past week.

It started with a hand shack to the valet and a jingle of the keys. A smile that said I'll get you on the way out or I'll completely forget crossed his face as the complimentary valet did all he could to force the smile. The man didn't mean to come off as another pest in the ant hive of this scene. He just wanted a drink to swirl and a scene to let him escape to a solitude of the troughs of America's jungle. A jungle the man kept going back into no matter the sounds of beasts or the rain that had befallen him the last visit. It was tough to not go back to a place where one feels so at home.

The door opened in front of him from a lady in white who made enough eye contact to keep him guessing. The pink and purple stayed outside and gave way to a yellowish hue descending from chandeliers accompanied by the tingle of ballroom piano from the left corner of the bar. It was still early so the piano was being played softly; not over bearing to try to trump the conversation. Exactly where it should be and never venturing any further. The bar blended well with the yellow; resulting in a almost crystal look of the assortment of bottles kept on call for the customers. The man stroked his stubble and took a seat in the center; camels to the right and left of him. One was having a conversation with a woman young enough to be his daughter and the other was sitting envious of the other; and glued to the t.v. to seem disinterested. The man in the middle encompassed a little of both of them: free loving, content, and blind to perception.

"What can I get ya?" the bartender, black coat, black tie asked the man; showing acknowledgement of a loyal customer.

"Whiskey on the rocks. Makes sure its Jameson," the man said; pointing his figure at the bartender and smiling.

"Of course."

The t.v. shouldn't have been distracting but, with a mellow bar scene, it did the trick. It was that or get out the phone he had just put away; which would not have been good practice at all. Instead he watched the art of pouring a drink unfold in front of him. The quick ice in the too small glass and the subtle splashes of whiskey breathing out from the sheltered bottle. Flowing over the ice, keeping its own identity but at the same time gaining the beauty of water; the uniqueness. It was coming into its own; becoming the one substance that brings out truth and can easily wreck it at the same time. It slid in front of the man, with the receipt closely following. He swirled the drink back and forth, studying it, taking it all in. It was in the subtle seconds that the air got a little hotter and the lights a little brighter and true beauty turned its seductive head in an attempt to lure all the camels from pressing matters. A bright force such as a tall, beautiful temptress will have that affect; a stunned speculation.

Why was she here alone, the man thought? Women like this didn't venture out alone, no. They were like the President; always traveling with extra security; protectors to strive off camels who had had too much water that evening; who thought their humps looked a little larger than usual. No, they had to be hiding, maybe. Out in the bathroom, telling her to go ahead and get spots at the bar. This had to be the case. In some horrible way the man wanted it to be; wanted to be so he could have a valid excuse for not introducing himself to the blonde, 5'9 angle who had floated into this bar; already elevated among the commoners.

The man had all the time in the world, all the time to sip a little faster and wait a littler eagerly for five minutes to see the women order a martini and continue to sit alone. Sitting around and not looking for anyone, not playing with a phone or her hair; relaxing at a bar like a seasoned alcoholic who does this every Friday night. The man looked at his glass; wondering how time had eclipsed to make it near empty. He wouldn't let time waste and instead he knocked it back; enough liquid courage to walk over and began the awkward dance.

It wasn't a crowded bar so the subtle lean in and knock of the shoulder wouldn't work. He guessed it would be too tacky for a woman like this anyway. He went right next to the open sit to her left; tapping his fingers to the beat of the piano; trying to detract his eyes from sliding over to her; gravitating to her beauty. His mind wandered to all the possible scenarios of failure; the smart ass look accompanied by a smart ass comment to demote his self worth and lead him back between the camels, the chit chat that said get out but was friendly enough to make you think it might have worked, or, the best, the blunt I'm not interested. It was these moments that made him never want to do it in the first place, to just order another and think about maybe the best ways it could end; knowing these would be better than any reality. The night didn't demand that, though; the night wouldn't allow it. One tap and he looked to his right where she was; swirling her straw.

"Hi, my name's John. Is that a martini?" he said; extending his hand; floating for the eternity that it seemed for her to acknowledge him.