Last Call by Allen Dusk

A pair of googly eyes stared back from
the dried puffer fish hanging overhead; warm orange light saturated
its hollow belly. Sophie couldn't pry her eyes from the morbid
little thing even though her fresh manicure clutched a tantalizing
drink menu. Her black halter hugged her curves, maybe a bit too
much judging by the dull ache squeezing her floating
ribs.
    Soft music inspired by exotic jungle
islands soothed away her jittery nerves. Gradually she became aware
of her red shoe tapping along with the beat. The bar hosted a vast
collection of bottles, but their labels were impossible to decipher
in the dim lighting. Her gaze wandered past postcards of topless
hula girls and wooden masks tacked along the wall. A shrunken head
smiled through stitched lips from its perch on a bamboo
shelf.
    Dead things always reminded
her of the summer she'd spent at a hunting lodge with her
grandfather. Every room was lined with deer heads and stuffed
birds, their dark glass eyes plaguing her every restless night.
Such beautiful creatures they were; she never could see the purpose
in hunting something solely to mount its head on a wall. It was
probably the reason she blew most first dates ordering just a salad.
    I have no idea what I'm
doing here , she thought.
    "What can I get you?"
    For a moment Sophie swore
the creepy fish spoke to her. She blinked, gathered her better
judgment, and reassured herself there was no reason to run away
screaming, which for a minute she had seriously considered. A blue
Hawaiian shirt stretched over broad shoulders stepped into view. A
plain name badge with Lucas scribbled in black marker was pinned above a firm
pectoral.
    She glanced up, quickly losing herself
in a pair of eyes saturated with the deepest blue. "Um," she
skimmed over the menu, blushing under the intensity of his stare.
"Actually, I have no idea what I want."
    The bartender laughed, cracking a
slight smile through his strong jaw. "What are you in the mood for
then? Something sweet, or savory perhaps?"
    "Hmm." None of the native names or
exotic ingredients made much sense. Defeated by retro fonts and
neon inks, she laid the menu down so it faced him. "Which would you
recommend?"
    "This is your first time at Trader
Mic's, isn't it?" Amusement kindled in his voice, "Because I would
never forget a face as beautiful as yours."
    "You got me," Sophie laughed, catching
herself just shy of snorting. "I'm a Tiki virgin, I
guess."
    "So what brings you out tonight? Maybe
I can suggest a drink that will match your mood?"
    "Do you have anything for regret?" She
shifted on the stool, attempting to straighten the seam down the
back of her silk stockings without being noticed. Her garter belt
twisted, its edge roughing the back of her thigh. "I feel so stupid
in this outfit."
    "Why would you say a thing like that?"
He looked her up and down. "It totally matches the kitsch of this
place."
    "My girlfriend is really into retro
clothes and stuff, and she's been trying to get me into it as
well." She shifted the waistband of her leopard print skirt, which
only further strangled her hips trapped within its slim pencil cut.
"But I don't think this looks good on me at all."
    "Are you kidding me? This place would
be packed if you modeled for one of our event flyers." He pointed
over his shoulder toward a collection of posters tacked to the
wall; some were faded, others dog-eared, but a sultry woman in
retro attire smiled dead center in every one.
    "Thanks, but I'm not cut out to be a
model." She giggled through the flattery. "My friend, Carrie, the
one who convinced me to wear all this shit, she does photo shoots
once in a while."
    Lucas browsed the patrons scattered
about the bar. "So, where's this friend of yours?"
    "That's the funny part. I had just
finished parking when she texted to tell me she couldn't make it
because her boyfriend was being a dick about it. To be honest, I
almost drove home."
    "That would have been a shame to put
all that to waste, you look really good.