Short story: Cocktail Hour
The scent of eau de cologne wisps the air, cycling through the vents and ducts and secret places.
The mahogany tables gleam, the red and gold carpet swirls expensively and subtly. The dark brown leather of the booth seats reflect candlelight, which pools in front of dark corners. A suit of armour, with a panache matching the carpet, watches behind a fern.
Tall, matronly, stern, they sit around one of the table, sipping elegantly at small drinks and nibbling fingerfood. Pearls shine slowly, velvet glints, small talk chatters gently, subtly, tastefully.
A crash, a wobble, a stagger, a snagged stocking, a sob, a trail of broken heals to the ladies as the ranks are momentarily broken.
The remaining matrons close ranks, don't look back. The cello soloist on the small stage in front of the baby grand continues.
This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: panache, booth, matronly, scent, and soloist.
Image courtesy of pmorgan.
