The city lights blurred as we sped through the night.
The woman behind the wheel, her name Malady,
glanced back with a wink.
“Good taste in drivers, huh?” she chuckled.
I grinned, feeling warmth spread through me.

“Where to?” She asked. “The best bourbon in town, I said
“Thought you might be feeling that way,” she said.
“There’s this great little place I know…”
Her voice trailed off as she started the engine, the car humming to life.
“Let’s go quench that bourbon appetite, shall we?”

We pulled up to a bar unlike any I’d seen.
A crooked, neon sign glowed in the shape of a lopsided melon,
casting a cheerful orange hue on the weathered brick facade.
“The Melon Patch?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Malady winked again,
her smile as infectious as the bar’s quirky sign.
“This is where bourbon dreams come true.”
She shut off the engine.
“Consider it a bonus for mentioning good taste.” 

Intrigued, I paid the fare.
Before I could protest, Malady hopped out,
her heels clicking a happy rhythm on the sidewalk.
“One drink,” she declared, throwing an arm
around my shoulder, “on the house.”

The door of the Melon Patch swung open,
revealing a haze of amber light and the sweet,
heady aroma of aged bourbon.
Stepping inside, a warmth,
both literal and welcoming, washed over me.

This, I had a feeling,
was the start of a night I would soon forgive but never forget.