#satisfaction guaranteed

There is a brief flicker of annoyance at the implication of these words.

Carlos sizes up the man behind the bar, squaring his shoulders. “I am sure I can afford.” Somehow, his desire to gain access to the redheaded stranger overshadows the moral concerns he felt upon first hearing the bartender’s warning.

By now, he’s willing to admit to himself that he’s been following the man for the better part of twenty minutes. He’s not keen to give up simply because he’s learned he probably should.

Furthermore, he cannot deny his pride is provoked by the insinuation he might not be willing or able to pay for the man’s company. He is certainly both.

The Spaniard’s gaze travels over to where the man sits a few meters from where Carlos is standing with the bartender,. Truly, this freckled angel is the only thing worth looking at in the entire establishment – if not the greater San Francisco area.

The willowy redhead’s long limbs are splayed awkwardly around him. His shiny black shoes bouncing out to the side as he teeters adorably back and forth on the rickety wooden bar stool, one pointy elbow tossed up on the bar counter for balance.

It’s unclear to Carlos whether the man is moving to the distant tune of the jukebox, or merely wiggling to an internal tune of his own making. Whichever it is, he seems to be pleasantly occupied with the endeavor – absent-mindedly swirling vodka soaked olives around in his martini as he bops his mess of curls from side to side.