The sign over the door simply said “Bar”. It was one of those one-story brick buildings that could’ve easily been a real estate office or a laundromat or the sort of law firm that advertised with an 888 number. Laurel walked a couple blocks and found the address Flynn had given her, a bar with absolutely no pretense. The city smelled tired and beat, as though it’d spent a long day toiling in the summer sun. Her throat tightened and she knew if her nerves had kicked in before she boarded the bus she’d have never gotten this far. She was a short walk from that man, the one whose face she could only roughly conjure three days after their introduction. Until the moment her feet hit the sidewalk, ushered her out of the dry, cold fridge of the bus and into the sticky July heat, she hadn’t been nervous.
The robot voice announced Dorchester Street and she made her way to the front, thanked the driver and exited.
Laurel leaned against the window watching brick-lined blocks fly past between frequent stops. The nine bus rattled over the bridge as the sun disappeared beyond the buildings to the west.
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