ANGEL ROSE
I push the heavy wooden door open and step into the dim hum of the bar. The room is lit by amber‑tinted bulbs that cast a warm glow over the polished wood. Along the left wall, a line of waist‑high tables is paired with mismatched bar stools—some leather, some metal, all a little worn. A few patrons lean on the stools, chatting over the low country music that drifts from a corner speaker.
After a chaotic series of events, I tossed my phone and lost the contact of a guy I met at my in‑laws’ anniversary, leaving me back at square one in landing singing gigs.
Every chair is taken, with a few people standing around, and the room is buzzing. I’m not sure if it’s always this full, but I’m glad for the lively vibe. I push through the crowd to the bar.
“Hey, could I get a glass of
