When the smooth female voice announced, “Arriving at destination on right,” Dan felt the deepest swoop of trepidation yet. He stopped his car and stared at the door of the bar.
The Flame was nothing to write home about: just an old building in the style of the early thirties with a plain black door. The building was several stories high and the windows on the upper floors were covered with shades that appeared ancient and dingy.
As he watched, two young men dressed in tight, sleeveless muscle shirts and skinny jeans came down the street. They were laughing and talking. They opened the door of the bar and went in.
Dan took a deep breath. He’d dressed in a green, short sleeve shirt and tan khakis. He swallowed, put the car in drive, and left. He got about two blocks away when he stopped and pulled over again.
No, you’ve come this far. You’re gonna go through with this, he told himself. You’re not going to use how you’re dressed as an excuse for backing out.