“White wine, please.” She sits at the end of the bar and blends in with the other faceless people. She is alone. Alone and lonely yet surrounded by laughter and dancing and music so loud the wine vibrates in her glass. Everything feels forced—the energy in this place, the smiles plastered all around, even her breathing—inhale, exhale. She takes a sip, feels the coolness slip down her throat and silently toasts the New Year. Things can only get better…
“Bourbon rocks.” He claims the next stool. The faint smell of his cologne almost invokes a memory, but not quite.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
This post was written especially for Write Tribe – 100 Words on Saturday, Prompt: Strangers in the Night.
Frank Sinatra, Strangers in the Night