On the Job Training by Lynn Townsend
The Blisse was not just a bar, not one of those wait-in-line-and-bribe-the-doorman clubs. No sweaty, Axe-sprayed, dressed in the latest style from the thrift shop, emaciated hipster boys grinding up against drunken, satin-clad girls wearing too much hairspray. None of that, here.
“I’d tell you about my favorite bar, but you probably never heard of it,” Chandler muttered. He poured the last of his microbrew into his glass, watching the foam cling to the side with appreciation.
The door swung open. A breeze whirled into the bar, holding the promise of spring and a hint of floral perfume. Chandler turned his head.
She didn’t just walk in; she made an entrance. She stepped daintily down the steps that led into the basement pub. Her shoes were whimsical
