Femme Fatale

It's pouring. The sky is weeping. He tries to stay strong. He has to, his father always told him. It had been a mild summer evening. 20 degrees and a beautiful sunset. When the last ray of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon, everything became more surreal. The darkness clouds the moral compass, like a filter that influences thoughts.
He turns into the third side street. Nothing has been heard from the main road for a long time. At the end of the street, a neon-red sign flickers. He steers towards it. Sparse light from inside fights against the smoky windows.
He stops in front of the sign. "Rausch" is written on it. He takes a deep breath and presses down the door handle.
It squeaks, the door catches on the sign mounted above the entrance. He steps inside. Cold smoke smell hangs in the air. He can only make out details in silhouette. In the corner stands a piano. An old pianist sits in front of it with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and plays "Creep" by Radiohead. How clichéd, he thinks to himself. He walks a few steps inside and approaches the bar. It is deserted. A few unwashed beer glasses and a sparsely lit spirits shelf at least make the place seem somewhat alive. He sits down and smokes.
After the last drag of the second cigarette, the entrance door rings. He can only make out the figure in silhouette. The person comes closer and the silhouette slowly becomes more detailed, as if the person were entering the frame in a scene filmed with an open aperture.

The woman reaches the light of the bar lighting. A black dress stands before him. She sits down next to him. He pays her no attention and pours two glasses of whisky. He drinks. The other stands untouched between them.
The woman opens her clutch and pulls out a Mont Blanc and a notebook. With a flourish she writes down a few lines and places the note under the untouched glass of whisky. She stands up and blurs back into a silhouette.