She drank champagne as if it was the least celebratory drink on the planet, exuding a sort of world-weariness that can only come from having too much of everything. Or not having anything left to dream of.
The bar was an open circle in the centre of the shopping mall, cordoned off by deep-red velvet strings bleeding from the ceiling—like a shredded curtain put up more for effect than privacy. She held court in the middle of it all, the ennui on obvious display on her face. And I wanted to help her, make her feel better.
Undoubtedly, there are a lot of other people much more deserving of my help. People in actual need, with no money or a roof over their head.
A while back I started a new short story that I’ve been shamelessly neglecting. To breathe some new life into it, I’ve decided to participate in Six Sentence Sunday. This means that every Sunday I’ll be posting six sentences from the story. Here we go. (This is a work in progress, so no extensive editing has been done on it yet.)
It was the middle of the day when I saw her draining the last of her champagne. She sat alone at the bar, staring blankly at a row of empty crystal flutes suspended from metal bars. I don’t know why she caught my eye. Maybe it was the way she fiddled with her pale fingers, as if itching for a cigarette. Or how her bright red hair seemed to catch fire under the ceiling spots.
I’d just spent half a pay-check on a designer lamp at Lane Crawford and I was feeling quite audacious, the way only paying a ludicrous amount of money for something you don’t need can make you feel.