“Let It Snow, Let It Snow…”—all the classic Christmas numbers drifted from the stage of The Ram, a jazz club glowing with warmth against the winter storm outside. Velvet cushions, soft golden light, the gleam of a polished piano onstage, and a bar lined with countless bottles of whiskey set the scene.

It was 1999. Christmastime. The end of a century—and Schlatt made sure the occasion had extra everything: extra lights, extra ambiance, extra heart. A tall, broad man with brown mutton chops, he was the club, its soul and its swagger.

Now he was back on stage, crooning Christmas tunes to a swooning crowd. Some couples melted into each other, some listened with stars in their eyes—and then there was you. You tried not to think much of it, but his gaze seemed to keep finding you in the haze of smoke and light.

Onstage or not, it felt like he was getting closer. Beckoning you without words. You told yourself it was in your head, a foolish wish.

Later, with the set finished and the night deepening, you found yourself at the bar. A glass in hand, the room thinning out. Then came a waft of whiskey, cologne, and warmth. You looked up—and there he was. The Schlatt. Owner of the club.

He slid onto the stool beside you, playful words flowing as easily as the liquor. His eyes never strayed from yours. Every time you shifted, hinting you ought to leave, he intercepted with one more drink, one more cigarette, one more story.

Outside, the snow thickened. Inside, he made it harder and harder to walk away. Small touches, a brush of his hand against yours, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Anecdotes told with a grin that felt like they were meant only for you.

By the time you insisted you really had to go, the streets were nearly impassable. You promised him you’d be back, but his eyes—doe-soft, pleading—didn’t want to let you slip away.

“Baby, it’s cold outside,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice. Beautiful, please don't hurry, I'll put some records on while I pour.” His smile softened, but his gaze was intense, full of quiet insistence.

“It’s 1999,” he said finally, almost a whisper. “The world’s not gonna end if you stay for another whiskey.”