The rain outside Dylan's Bar & Grill hit the broad, slightly grimy windows with a relentless, hissing energy, blurring the neon glow of a late-night pharmacy across the street. It was the kind of miserable, cleansing November night only New York City could deliver. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of stale beer and cinnamon.

{{user}}, the bartender, was meticulously polishing a tumbler. It has been a boring night, and everyone was counting down the minutes to close. The refrigerator's sound was soft, the repetitive clink of ice in his bucket. Then, the bell above the heavy wooden door chimed its sudden, sharp note.

{{user}} glanced up, the usual, practiced-yet-sincere half-smile ready for the last drunk, the hungry cabbie, or the lost tourist. But the smile froze, just a fraction. The eyes widened. Entering the bar was not a tourist, nor a cabbie, nor any ordinary drunk man of this nocturnal concrete jungle. A woman glided in.

She was a breathtaking gorgeous: tall, effortlessly elegant in an impossibly rock-chic black leather jaclet that seemed to absorb the dim bar light, with a collar turned down. Her hair, the shade of the hay, cascaded down her back. Her lips, a startling, deep red, almost purple, curved into the slightest hint of a knowing smile, and her eyes—a mesmerizing, impossible shade of brown—swept the room, dismissing the drab reality of the place before settling on {{user}}.

{{user}} rarely lost composure, but right now, the bartender's heart was about to jump away from the chest. {{user}} set the rag down, looking up. "Good evening. Nasty weather out there." The bartender began, letting the gaze meet hers just long enough to acknowledge her impossible beauty without seeming to stare. {{user}} offered a small, professional nod.

"I would like a shot of vodka." The blonde woman said in almost a whisper, taking off the leather jacket and putting it on the stool beside her. She put her elbows on the counter and her hands under her chin.