The white blossoms in her hair hung like stars in the night sky, perfectly offset by the ebony cascade of her hair. And the way she moved, in that persimmon orange dress, with the slit that barely left anything to his imagination? Well, it flat out crippled his faculties.
Common sense went down in flames when he asked her to dance. His propriety was shot to hell when he put one hand on the small of her back and the other on that silky thigh. And when she whispered into his ear, her breath hot and sweet, whispered words that would make a sailor blush, he couldn’t help but follow her up those darkened stairs.
Up the stairs she went, sliding through rooms like a snake until she found the empty bathrooms. He followed her the whole way, hypnotized by the sway of her curves. She pushed the door closed behind him and twisted the latch. Her tongue plunged into his mouth. His hand ran up her thigh. They were finding each other.
Which is about the time the door burst open and a hipster ran for the toilet.
After all, this is Ernestine and Hazels. The bathrooms don’t lock.
Ernestine and Hazel’s is a bar in downtown Memphis that has a storied history. It used to be a sundry’s store, then it became a brothel, and now it’s a bar. A haunted bar, to boot. But fair warning to anyone attempting a tryst – the doors don’t lock as well as you think they do.