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Directions

I’m not sure what possessed me. My normal haunts were well-lit bistros with perky waitresses, wine lists, and menus filled with intermittent French. The Daily Grind was dark, the bartender had more tattoos than skin, and the bottles across the back of the bar served as a menu. I was out of my element and didn’t even know who to expect. All I had was the note I’d found on the bedside table that morning:

“Wear the red dress, sit at the bar, and smile at whoever sits next to you.”