Amnesia

[The Exodus]

Your experience at Amnesia Cafe and Bar won't be one you'll want to ever forget. By day, the building is purposed as a tearoom and bistro. By night, the basement becomes a dancefloor and the mezzanine an intimate space ideal for chatting and drinking through until sunrise. Though the purpose of the Amnesia Cafe may change, there is one constant: whatever it is, it is a haven for Paris' gay community.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: Because no one has used this thread, here is Kenneth, available to anyone who wants him. BiC:

Kenneth Dahl

Kenneth didn’t drink often. Of course, there had been fun nights with Timothy, who rather enjoyed alcohol, that Kenneth would swallow his pride and wash it down with a snifter of brandy. But in all, he found the taste of it too sharp, too disturbingly abrasive that he only drank in social situations. Unfortunately, such social situations happened in his family a lot. It was during those times Kenneth would have a glass and pour out another, having pretended to enjoy the amber liquid. Then, as everyone else, heavy lidded form the alcohol, happily drowsy and oblivious, Kenneth would sneak off in search for a stereo and good book, or a notebook and a quiet corner of his room. There, no one would disturb him until Violet, having impeccable timing, would come in with a slice of cake, also looking for a quiet, but not quite so lonely place.

Today, however, was the other way around. His assignment for class was over Oliver Twist, the story of an orphan boy who turns to crime and finds members of his biological family along the way. If the crime factor was taken out, it hit Kenneth too close to home. He took a long run through the Bois, fighting with all his might to forget about his impending paper about orphan Oliver and the plot twists that seemed to mimic the wrench throw into Kenneth’s own plans, sending him down a curving, coiling path that led him colliding into the bench he met that man at all those weeks ago. It was like he couldn’t escape it. So he continued his jog within the labyrinth of the city, the tall buildings looming over him, still and imposing, intimidatingly leading him where he needed to go. He followed the buildings around all day, taking streets he had yet to meet. Mr. Ortiz had said to change his routine, and this had deviated far from his daily trek. So far, in fact, he found himself in unfamiliar territory, gasping for air in these uncharted waters.

He drank in his surrounding, his lips parched from the long jog. Maybe exploring would be a good way to get life off his mind for a while.

He stepped foot into a nearby bar. It wasn’t the first time he had been in one. For his eighteenth birthday, his sister and father took him to a club, where Kenneth proceeded in drinking sodas, getting a migraine from the music and a concussion from tripping on the dance floor. It wasn’t until last year when Timothy took him to one. That had been heavenly. They danced and drank and enjoyed each other’s company and kissed every step of the way home. It repainted his view of it from dark and grey to bright and colourful. This time, he was sure, wouldn’t top the last time, but it would outshine the first.

He sat at the barstool. Around him, the club seemed to throb and thrive. It was like living in a house-sized human heart—it lubbed and dubbed with a heartbeat of music, which from beneath, barely audible, Kenneth ordered a beer on tap. Already, he had forgotten about the Bois, the detective agency, and the paper he had to write. Maybe his plan was working.