She sat at the bar alone, unintentionally watching some football game of a team she had no familiarity with. She sipped on her Corona, occasionally glancing at her phone.

She felt someone’s presence next to her, so she moved her purse in front of her.

“I’m sorry. Was this seat taken?”

She looked at the man and shook her head. “It’s all yours.” She thought to herself how handsome he was. However, meeting a man in a bar was on her list of “no no’s.”

She had a habit of tuning out loud noises in public spaces. She didn’t hear the glasses clanking or men and women roaring with laughter, either tipsy or drunk out of their mind.

“Long day at work?” His question took her out of her zone and the noise reappeared.

She offered him a friendly smile, “I guess you could say that.” Although she looked away from his face, she briefly caught a glance at what he was wearing. Nice denim jeans that seemed to fit him just right with a white-collared shirt, a black blazer, and black Chelsea boots. He even had the salt-and-pepper hair that she liked in a man.

“Should I assume the same?” One question from her should suffice. It’s enough to show that she isn’t rude, but generic enough for him to get the hint that she’s simply being friendly.

“Not hardly,” he took a long sip.

“Lucky you. What do you do?” She extended her body slightly in his direction.

“I’m an art dealer.” He stared at her intently, catching her eyes.

“That’s funny. I’m a curator. I work at the ‘Chelsea’ gallery a few blocks away.”

“I know,” he slightly laughed and took a chug of his beer.

“So is this by chance or did you follow me?” She instantly became uncomfortable, but she was in a bind at work. Perhaps this could be beneficial—she could display new artwork and put on an exhibit for a client of his and she would get out of this pigeon-hold her boss had her in.

“This is a popular bar. Anyone in the city with taste frequents this place.” His tongue momentarily peeked out the corner of his mouth.

She analyzed his face, trying to see if he was bullshitting her. He was smooth and had a presence of power. She couldn’t read him as well as she wanted to. “So what do you propose?”

“A proposition? My dear, please be more clear.” She detected a slight accent. She couldn’t pinpoint where it was from.

“Come on, don’t try to play games with me. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. What’s the artist’s name?” She finished off her beer and waived at the waiter to close her tab.

“You have me mistaken. I don’t work after 7 p.m.” He leaned in closer to her as the group next to him began to get more rowdy.

“Ah, family man.” She distanced herself away from him as she pulled a credit card out of her wallet.

He whispered in her ear, “You assume too much.”

She impatiently waited for the waiter to charge her card. She felt like she made a fool of herself. She felt confused. She was turned on and even more stressed out.

“My mistake. Have a good evening.” She gave him a nod, grabbed her purse, and quickly got the hell out.

A block away from the restaurant, she leaned against a store’s window, frantically checking her emails. She had been waiting for responses from local art dealers she knew. For some reason, it’s been a slow month. The gallery owner wasn’t impressed with the few artists she presented to him. Perhaps local artists weren’t enough. She might have to go to London or Paris and scope out young and upcoming artists. She wondered if she should present the idea of putting in an installation, instead of the typical paintings and photography their gallery normally sells.

“Hi there,” he smiled at her as he lit a cigarette.

“You’re not following me, right?” She rolled her eyes as she put her phone away.

“Want a cig?” He offered her the container that held his cigarettes.

“Menthol?” She temporarily forgot about her annoyance with him.

“You’re in luck.” He pulled the lighter out of his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t, but I will.” She inhaled the minty flavor of the cigarette. “God, I haven’t had one of these since college.”

With 15 seconds left at the crosswalk, they crossed the street. “What’s your name?”

“Mikkel.”

“Sounds European. I’m Justine, which you probably know, seeing as though stalkers know everything.”

“I’m no stalker. I’m a professional who does his homework.”

By this time, they stopped walking. She looked up at the reddish moon. “Sure you do. Well, I’m headed home. Thanks for the cigarette.” She walked away from him.

“You live close?” He put out his cigarette on a stonewall and threw it in the trash, quickly catching up to her.

She looked into his eyes, debating on saying anything. Fuck. His eyes. “I’m sure you already know.”

“I told you, Justine. I’m a professional. I haven’t the slightest clue about you other than your name is Justine and that you work as a curator at an art gallery.”

She squinted her eyes at him. “Are you a Scorpio?”

He leaned back and then close to her. “How did you know?”

“I guess I met my match.” She started to walk off slowly, knowing he would follow her lead.

“You are a Scorpio too, no?” He put his hands in his pockets.

She nodded her head in agreement. “Now I know three things about you: your name, occupation, and zodiac sign.”

“Yet, I know nothing about you.” She avoided looking at him, knowing the potential power of his gaze.

“May I walk you home, Justine?”

She internally shuddered at the way he said her name. While her body may be weak, the mind must be strong. Common sense came into play. “I don’t think so, but thanks for the offer.”

Justine was getting closer to her apartment, she could last another mile.

“Are you sure? My bike is parked on the next block. I could save you a walk.”

They crossed the street. Ugh. He even owns a nice BMW motorcycle. This man has taste. “I appreciate it, but I’m fine. Thank you.”

He walked towards his bike, unclipping the helmet from the latch under the seat. “Get home safely, Justine.”

Why must he say my name at the end of a sentence? “Have a good night.”

She waited for the crosswalk to change, knowing that the cops around had no issue in handing out $75 dollar jaywalking tickets. As she watched the cars pass, she saw him on his bike at the stoplight. Although she couldn’t see his face, it was turned towards her. She quickly looked away in time and crossed the street as the stoplight turned green.

He sped off, interchanging lanes and cutting off taxis.