She sat crossed legged on a high stool, resting her arms on the bar and sipping a dry martini.
A rock band echoed in the background, but it wasn’t live, she’d have been blowing smoky kisses through the fog of blondes if it had been.
It played on a mono-chrome jukebox; the song was selected by a newcomer who’d bought the martini she sipped.
Her blood red lips were pouting at a cigarette when he complimented her lace lined cocktail dress. What he didn’t see was the gun in her garter and the ring beneath her glove. But he didn’t need to know.
She sipped her drink slowly, listening to light behind his silhouette, tasting his presence with her need for solitude, and though she found his conversation irrelevant she watched his mouth pronounce L’s and Q’s as if the next sound would be an invention.
The room began to reverberate with a new-fangled tune, one contrary to the previous and one that reminded her of her yen of isolation. So, as the last of her martini splashed her throat, the door swung behind her...
Her skin felt the night’s breath and she pondered his face, when she’d slammed her money in the jukebox, as he poured her drink, and as he spent the night chatting to the women beside her.
Her heels clicked on the pavement and her fingers tickled the metal against her leg.
This wasn’t going to be her last night after all.
Honorable mention
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