(no subject)
She sat in the bar, barely registering the gentle hum of conversation, the clinking and clattering of china and glass and the tinkling music made by the till and the bell over the door working in tandem. Smoke rose from dozens of places, trailing from complete strangers to entwine like lovers on the ceiling. The light was gloomy at best; outside it was nearing dusk and this end of the city was full of dingy little lanes and grubby drinking places like this one. What illumination there was came from dusty lamps, dotted around the tables and the ceiling, bouncing reflections off any polished surface (although admittedly, there were few) and refractions through the bottles of alcohol. Cognac, scotch, whiskey, absinthe - all danced lights on the patrons and their faces. There wasn't air, but a thick soup; compressed from tobacco and stale sweat, shot through with the tang of split spirits. Her fingernails slipped down the side of her cup, flirted with the edge of the saucer, embraced the spoon for a moment and then started tapping out a staccato rhythm on the tabletop. For this evening at least, she was content.