I met Satan in a bar in San Diego one summer night, but of course, I didn’t know who he was at the time.

It was some time past nine on a Tuesday night and the pub - its name I did not bother to remember - was barely half full.

Before me, on the long wooden bar, lay my phone with over 20 unanswered calls, and next to it, lined in a row, ten small glasses - samples of the craft beers the place had to offer.

The bartender had generously filled each sample to its brim and I was diligently working my way to the ninth glass, unaware of their flavors and unbothered by their names.

My phone’s screen flared up again and on the locked screen I could read the message “Somehow I have the feeling you’re not coming back.”

When I got up to use the restroom, I realized just how lightheaded I had become.

He was sitting in a booth, dressed in ripped jeans and a ridiculously colorful Hawaiian shirt, and as I passed him by, we locked eyes.

Those were the brightest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen and they were unapologetically fixed on me.

To make things worse, he smiled, but it was not the cocky, self-assured smile a girl so often gets in bars. It was almost shy, and charming in a seemingly unintentional way.

Raising an eyebrow in self-defense had become a habit and so I resorted to that, but once I was alone in the booth, a flutter ran through me.

But I was not there to start an affair, I reminded myself. I was there to take some time off and think, time to clear my mind and reassemble my life again. Getting infatuated with some random guy in a bar was not the way to do it.

I washed my hands, staring at the mirror the whole while. A tired, lost face stared back. We nodded to each other, the excitable child on the inside and the cynical woman on the outside, and I left, staring straight ahead.

My walk, which people often describe as hasty and purposeful, came to a sudden halt as I neared the bar.

All of the seats were taken.

My purse was on me and apparently, without anything to mark my seat, it was conquered by another.

I did not want to turn back, risking catching the eyes of the guy in the booth again, but now I had no choice.

I turned and felt like I had stumbled into an alternate universe, like in those stories where the hero enters some mysterious cave or a shop and then goes out several hours later only to find that what had seemed like hours was really hundreds of years in the world outside.

The pub was completely full as if there was a time-space disruption while I was away and from a lazy mid-week night it was transported into a lively Saturday.

I scanned the room from left to right only to find that all seats had been taken. At last, my stare inevitably reached the guy who had smiled at me before.

He was still there, alone in his booth, and he was looking at me, smiling.

I should leave, a voice spoke in my mind, but before I had a chance to do that, he waved his hand, gesturing for me to join him.

Normally an action of that sort would get nothing but a condescending look out of me, but there was something simple in that gesture, warm and inviting, and I found myself drawn.

A waitress appeared by our table as I was sitting down.

“Another one?” She asked him, gesturing at the empty cup before him, and he nodded with a smile.

“Rickard’s red, right?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said. His voice was dripping with a heavy accent I could not place.

“And for you?” she turned to me, I asked for an apple cider and she left.

“Not impressed with their beer selection?” He inquired when we were left alone.

I raised an eyebrow, “I don’t like beer, but free samples are always nice,”

My tone was supposed to remain calm, but a teasing note managed to creep into it.

It seemed to amuse him.

“I’m Lucian, by the way,” he offered.

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“Stacy,” I lied.

The light buzz that was running through my limbs before was fading away, and under his unrelenting glare, I was beginning to feel uneasy. I was relieved when the waitress returned - faster than I would have expected on such a busy night - with our drinks.

He raised his glass to mine and I was grateful to close my eyes and take a long sip, feeling the sweet drink fill me with ease.

With my newfound, alcohol-induced confidence, I allowed myself to study him for a long moment.

He was short and quite good-looking, in a young, boyish kind of way, and when not fixed on me, his eyes would not stop running around the room with frantic speed.

On the edge of his seat, next to the wall, was a guitar case, and I was surprised how I had not noticed it before. It was a hard case, large and square, which filled the bench with its presence.

“You’re here on vacation?” His question made me turn my attention back to him.

“Yeah,” I had to admit, hastily adding, “Visiting a friend.”

“Makes sense,” he chuckled, “Not the best vacation destination in the area,”

“So what brings you here then?”

“Picking up my new guitar, as a matter of fact,” he looked aside at the case and placed a surprisingly gentle hand on it, “A custom Carvin, they have a factory here,”

“How long have you been playing?” I found myself asking before I could stop myself. I always did like guitarists.

“Oh, a long long time,” he laughed, “I played other string instruments before too, but this is my new obsession. And what about you? Do you have any interesting obsessions?”

The question was strange and my first response was to raise my guards up but I found it hard to stop the words from pouring out.

“I write, actually, though I haven’t been doing much writing in the past year.”

He tilted his head to the side, “Tough year?”

“I suppose so.”

It was strange how easy it was to spill my heart out to the guy with the silly smile and the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. And he listened, without seeming eager, without demanding or trying too hard.

The music and conversations around us formed a comfortable bubble and before I knew it, several hours had passed.

“Eleven at night and the place is still packed,” I noted, looking around, “That’s a first…”

“And looks like a great time to give this beast a try,” Lucian said next to me and I turned back sharply.

He answered my confused look by getting up and pulling the black case along with him.

“Is it an open night?” I wondered, looking around.

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re just going to get up and play? Shouldn’t you ask them first?”

He shrugged, “This is not a matter of asking and choices, this is just what I have to do.”

And with that, he started making his way between the tables. Only then I had noticed there was a small stage at the far end of the room and Lucian was walking right towards it.

He pulled a tall chair from somewhere in the back to the center of the little stage, and for a moment disappeared out of my field of view as he sat down to open his case and plug his guitar in. When he came into view again he was holding a curvy beast with a red-burst coloring in his hands and his expression changed completely; the silly smile was gone, his eyes were locked on an undetermined spot in the room and his stare was so intense it looked like they could melt metal.

No one paid him any special attention as he walked, and not even as he took his place on the stage, but all of a sudden, as if on some silent cue, the background music stopped and a raspy, distorted wail came out from under his fingers. All eyes were on him at once.

His delicate fingers ran along the guitar’s neck with mesmerizing speed, making them appear blurry, and the notes combined into sharp razors of sound that flowed out from under his hands. It was like the roar of some giant beast; at times it was charging with a horrible glee, and at times shrieking with pain, full of longing.

Something happened as he played. My thoughts were gone without me realizing it. Old connections in the brain, pathways that led to regret, sorrow, or pain were deconstructed with each note. Obligations and commitments vanished, questions that had been plaguing me before seemed to have no meaning all of a sudden, and above all, a strange calm descended, evaporating all concerns, all needs, and desires.

He played without stopping, never glancing at the crowd, and the people appeared to be locked in a silent trance.

When he finished the background music didn’t start, the people didn’t cheer and no sound was heard.

He got up, unplugged his guitar, returned it to its case, and walked between the tables back to me.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” he said in the strange silence that filled the space around us, and never putting the case down offered me his hand.

As we started to walk towards the doors, people were blinking their eyes and looking around, as if awoken from a dream. Music began pouring out of the speakers and the world resumed its usual pace.

A Black Sabbath song came on it the background and as we walked out into the street I heard Ozzy singing “My name is Lucifer, please take my hand,”

The night was quiet and warm, with a salty breeze carrying from the ocean. We were close to La Jolla beach and with some silent consent, made our way there, further and further until we were down on the sand.

He took off his shoes and I followed and we walked in silence.

There was a strange tension in the air; an intoxicating electric storm was hanging still above us and we were drunk on electricity. It seemed like with each step the silently brewing storm was picking up speed, anxious to erupt. We didn’t stop when the sand turned wet under our feet and the cool ocean water started sending shivers up the spine.

He came to a sudden halt. A bright full moon was hanging low in the cloudless sky and we were standing at the foot of the silver trail it drew on the surface of the water.

He asked me to come with him and I didn’t ask where.

He gave me his hand, smiling his insane smile, and we departed from the coastline, following the silvery path on the water. We walked on and on until there was nothing around but a velvety blue sky sprinkled with stars. Until the city lights faded far behind us. Until the place where the ocean ended and the great void began.