John isn’t sure what exactly draws you to him. Maybe it’s the short, silky black slip, or the cheetah print jacket fluffy around your shoulders. Or the coke in your hand, the bottle kind, your manicured fingers and glossy lips making his hands clammy. It’s not a while before you walk over to the bar where he is pulling a cigar in front of him. He feels you looking at him and tilts his gaze to you, mouth going dry.