Lonely Women’s Club

The room around is filled with a dusty ash; smoke, in haze like distortion. Eyes are blood shot, sunken below the rim of a glass. The organ’s speakers cough vibrations into the room, smoke plumes spinning and spiralling into dissipation. 

No one speaks though the room is crowded, there is nothing to say and no one cares to hear it. Is there ever a time for last drinks? 

At the Lonely Women’s Club happy hour may never come…