Orange Dress & Whiskey Tricks

🎯 Field Report

Took a solo stroll on a sunny Saturday down the Neon Vein — the pulsing artery that cuts through the city like it owns the place. Ended up at the breezy outdoor bar of a casual seafood joint. I wasn’t drinking — had Soberlink the next day — so I asked the bartender for a lemonade. He didn’t sugarcoat it: “It’s trash.” Switched to an unsweetened iced tea. Fair enough.

Next to me stood a brunette in an orange dress, her black-and-brown-eared corgi curled at her feet like a shadow. Cute enough vibe. I saw her knock back a whiskey shot.

“What shot did you get?”

“Whiskey,” she said. “Helps with cramps. Way better than aspirin.”

“Good to know.”

She moved here from Charleston. I told her I’d just moved to the area — west side transplant, post-divorce. She asked why I got divorced. I told her the truth about my secret life. She gave the standard female prescription: “You should try therapy.” I listed a couple online therapists I’d tried. She looked unimpressed — told me in-person was better. I didn’t argue. Didn’t agree either. Honestly, I don’t think I need therapy anymore.

Then a familiar face — an Egyptian bartender I knew from my old neighborhood — walked up and fist bumped me. I told her he used to work at the bar near my ex-wife’s place. Somehow they got into a heated argument about Israel and Palestine. I stayed out of it, sipping my tea. If you can’t control the outcome, why waste breath?

Then he poured us three tequila shots. I reminded him I couldn’t drink.

“Fuck you, what are you talking about?!” he snapped, half-joking but loud with pressure. She laughed. “That’s how it is — guys from that whole region — they push like that.” She wasn’t wrong.

I stashed my shot under the bar, not sure what to do with it. She saw it, smirked, and snatched it — downed it without hesitation. Mischief. I thanked her for the save and explained the Soberlink situation. She nodded, amused.

I finished my iced tea and went to close out. The bartender waved me off: “I don’t care.” So I guess it was free.

Got her name — Lena. She lived on the east side of the Vein. Handed me her phone to put my number in. I did. Shot myself a message: “Hey sexy.”

“You texted yourself?” she asked, catching on.

“I did.” She looked at the screen, punched me in the arm, and laughed.

I headed back down the trail — not buzzed from liquor, but from the energy. Game sharp. Frame intact. The day wasn’t over.