Wall to wall mirrors, combined with high-shine carved walnut paneling, frosted glass, exposed brick, and soft, warm gas lighting, greeted your wondering gaze as you unwound your scarf, slipped out of your oversized padded coat.  A new bar, a higher end bar than those surrounding--a Neo-Victorian fusion bar--had opened between your home, and your job, and every day you had passed it after work, admiring the elegance of it all--from the shiny brass fittings, to the sleek wine-dark leather booths and stools.  

Apropos for its stateliness were its prices, though honestly, they weren’t as bad as you had previously imagined.  

The one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb in the otherwise impeccable decor was a garishly steampunk jukebox that sat against the far wall.  Despite its appearance however, it fortunately played a combination of modern music as well as a token number of pieces from the mid-to-late 19th century.  There were even some tracks with vocals lifted.  “Break glass in case of emergency drunken noraebang,” you chuckled quietly.

“What can I get for you, Beloved Customer?”  The bartender, dressed in a manner similar to the bar in modernized Victorian garb, was almost disturbingly suave.  Tall, exquisitely proportioned, with bold eyes and a feral grin, he slowly folded up his sleeves--the crisp white of the sea-island cotton shirt contrasting sharply with the sumptuous golden glow of his skin--his head tilted, focus entirely centered on your face as he awaited your answer.    

“May I have...a little more time?  I’ve never been here before,” you answered softly, looking down at the extensive drink menu at a bit of a loss.

“Of course,” he answered smoothly.  “I’ll come check on you again in a bit, love.”

With a sigh of relief you relaxed as soon as he turned away, removing the weight of his unjustly dapper attention.  You knew what you looked like, and you knew that men that looked like him didn’t flirt with girls that looked like you.  Still, you didn’t fault him; you knew it was all a part of the customer service at a place like this.   It was just burdensome to have to be put into that role when you knew…

Well.

It’s not that you were ugly.  You weren’t, you knew objectively that you weren’t.  It’s just...you were plain.  Average.  Okay, maybe slightly above average, but still with nothing to catch anyone’s attention, except for the odd ajusshi.  So, when someone who looked like that, in a setting like this, flirted with you, it was awkward because...you knew.  And, obviously, he knew.  And, you couldn’t determine which was more embarrassing.  If he knew that you knew...

Or if he thought that you didn’t.

Leisurely, you perused the menu, taking your time over the drink descriptions, carefully weighing the course of your night.  Having been recently promoted, you were eager to give yourself a little treat now that you finally were making a little disposable income.  Okay, sure a very little disposable income.  Miniscule, really--but you had been working at that thankless place for six years, hardly ever veering from your budget, rarely indulging in anything remotely gratuitous, and you wanted to celebrate.  

The thick cream gilt-edged linen paper of the menu felt luxurious against your fingers, the weight of the leather spine comfortably fitting into your palm as you turned the pages, fingertips running curiously over the embossed calligraphy of the various drinks.

By the time the unfairly attractive bartender returned, you were ready.  “Bokbunja, please.”

Knowing eyes flitted over your figure.  “Are you sure that you can handle it?  That’s a bit strong.”  

“Oh, is it?”  Thinking a moment, you nodded.  “Yes, I’ll take it, along with a plate of sliced fruits, please.”  

His expression warmed and he nodded.  “Very good.  I’ll be back with your order in a few minutes.”

An hour later found you still at the bar and feeling very comfortable.  Fortunately for you, the fruity drinks that you most wanted to try were on promotion, so you were able to eat and drink deliciously without feeling too guilty.  As the night wore on, you found fewer and fewer people crowding the lovely setting, allowing you to enjoy the interior design more and more.  

The familiar beginning strains of BoA’s “Garden in the Air” floated, well...through the air, and you spared a glance toward the jukebox to see a slender man, ruffled strawberry-blond hair in desperate need of a haircut, leaning against the imposing machine, his sharp eyes--heavily lined in smokey black kohl--canvassing the room.  Though his jawline and eyes were sharp, the rest of his features were soft, though set in a hard expression, as if life had taken something that had been meant for beauty, and treated it harshly.

Though lanky, his shoulders were broad under a navy button-down and red-and-navy raglan tee, and his thighs filled out his tight ripped acid washed jeans quite nicely. As if he sensed your attention, his gaze cut to yours, and to your utter mortification, he winked.