It was beyond vivid. A surreal landscape of scintillating laser light spread out lushly before the grimy street leech. Velvet ropes and plush gleaming synthetic leather furnishings sullenly glowed in shifting blue-yellow hues. Pink strobes rode along on heavy bass. Finally, funhouse-mirror chrome, everything, and opalescent tabletops pushed it all into absolute and decadent dream.
Meek Mike blinked his big black eyes and pulled his hands out from his filthy jacket. He fussed over his ragged hair and dusted his collar with greasy fingers. Eventually he navigated the convoluted bustle and made it to the bar. Mike paid too much in dark looks and hard cash for a conical glass of vodka before finding a chair.
It was overly soft. Mike felt like he was being swallowed. He shifted and twisted and crossed his legs. He tossed off his jacket, but simply could not be comfortable.
He wasn’t meant to be here, he knew. The hooch was good, but the bills in his pockets were better.
Then, she walked in through the back door. He felt like the music changed. It didn’t. Every time he relived the memory or told the story, it would, but in that moment the insistent club beat insisted on keeping tempo and tune.
Her hair was clean and stylishly short, not the frizzy, dishwater blonde mane he remembered. She still had those speckled scars on her arms and two fierce brown eyes, though. She strode purposefully towards him with a half-grin on her lips.
Mike felt right at home.