leopard-print backs; and uncovered windows.
Right—a larger room vibrant in green—too bright to be natural, yet still soothing; tiny tables suitable for dining and U-shaped booths sit underneath large, dangly chandeliers that are equal crystal and transparent green: all of it seems to be sprouting from a gigantic fireplace at the back of the room with a large mixed fruit painting above it.
Another room looks like it fell out of a pre-World War II detective movie; tall half columns along the walls, a check-in desk with a long, skinny antique lamp that remains lit although the room is vacant; everything either black, white, or chrome; tall windows behind the desk bare and rounded at the top—must be the ones he saw while walking to the front door; small, white-clothed tables fill the room, each with a tiny unlit lamp on its center and adjoined by two chairs in tight cloth covers; and walls adorned with framed art deco prints.
Every room has textured walls, be it in the form of illusion in the wallpaper or actual depth in the paint; none of it looks less than palatial.
The red rope ahead of him turns toward a stairway, and his feet follow. As he moves along the staircase which is stained between black and the color of root beer with orange, sponge-painted walls, there is a bronze-framed mirror directly in front of him at the flat area where the stairs make their ninety degree turn. His eyes continue to pass by the lush surroundings without notice; he hungrily looks at the furthest point ahead of him, which is now the top of the stairs.
The sounds of pop music and loud, party conversation fall down the stairwell to his ears.
The dark collection of stairs leads the way to an open room with a slightly lower ceiling than that of the first floor. A sign just like the one downstairs sits in the opening of the room announcing the television show’s exclusive party.
Stepping into the room, a long bar stretches from the corner at his right to two thirds of the way to the white brick wall at the far end of the room. The far wall has rectangular windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling and offer a view of the blue outside lights bathing the gargantuan palm trees.
There’s an empty stool at the end of the bar. The seat next to it is also vacant with a half-empty mixed drink, watery and forgotten, on the bar before it.
A part of him as thin as a shadow yearns for the empty stool; the feeling is far less powerful than it was before he punched a hole in time, but it still clings to him, etched into the skin at the back of his neck.
His eyes are on shimmering, flowing crimson breezes across the room, and it will take more than his worst inhibitions to hold him back now.
Surprisingly it is very much like he had imagined it to be, except the music is quieter. The first time around, he had convinced himself to miss the party because it would both give him time to go shopping for more professional clothing and allow him to avoid meeting his coworkers in an environment that would be most uncomfortable for him.
When he found out on his first day of work that Rhonda was there and he missed his chance to meet her, he nearly started weeping in front of the producers and other writers. When they said she left with some jerk who was drinking too much, he just put up a sad, awkward smile as his eyes watered up.
Now, it’s odd to be inside an event that he’s heard about and imagined in his head for years. Some things are as expected, but other details are different than his mental fabrication.
He makes his way through the room, looking at the thirsty patrons leaning on the bar resembling wolves suckling at their mother’s body.
A shoulder bumps into him, “Hey, slick, watch where you’re going.”
Some of the intruder’s double vodka Collins has spattered his purple shirt, but not enough to be very noticeable. The staggering spiller makes his way to the bar, eyeing the half-empty drink whose ice has mostly
Right—a larger room vibrant in green—too bright to be natural, yet still soothing; tiny tables suitable for dining and U-shaped booths sit underneath large, dangly chandeliers that are equal crystal and transparent green: all of it seems to be sprouting from a gigantic fireplace at the back of the room with a large mixed fruit painting above it.
Another room looks like it fell out of a pre-World War II detective movie; tall half columns along the walls, a check-in desk with a long, skinny antique lamp that remains lit although the room is vacant; everything either black, white, or chrome; tall windows behind the desk bare and rounded at the top—must be the ones he saw while walking to the front door; small, white-clothed tables fill the room, each with a tiny unlit lamp on its center and adjoined by two chairs in tight cloth covers; and walls adorned with framed art deco prints.
Every room has textured walls, be it in the form of illusion in the wallpaper or actual depth in the paint; none of it looks less than palatial.
The red rope ahead of him turns toward a stairway, and his feet follow. As he moves along the staircase which is stained between black and the color of root beer with orange, sponge-painted walls, there is a bronze-framed mirror directly in front of him at the flat area where the stairs make their ninety degree turn. His eyes continue to pass by the lush surroundings without notice; he hungrily looks at the furthest point ahead of him, which is now the top of the stairs.
The sounds of pop music and loud, party conversation fall down the stairwell to his ears.
The dark collection of stairs leads the way to an open room with a slightly lower ceiling than that of the first floor. A sign just like the one downstairs sits in the opening of the room announcing the television show’s exclusive party.
Stepping into the room, a long bar stretches from the corner at his right to two thirds of the way to the white brick wall at the far end of the room. The far wall has rectangular windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling and offer a view of the blue outside lights bathing the gargantuan palm trees.
There’s an empty stool at the end of the bar. The seat next to it is also vacant with a half-empty mixed drink, watery and forgotten, on the bar before it.
A part of him as thin as a shadow yearns for the empty stool; the feeling is far less powerful than it was before he punched a hole in time, but it still clings to him, etched into the skin at the back of his neck.
His eyes are on shimmering, flowing crimson breezes across the room, and it will take more than his worst inhibitions to hold him back now.
Surprisingly it is very much like he had imagined it to be, except the music is quieter. The first time around, he had convinced himself to miss the party because it would both give him time to go shopping for more professional clothing and allow him to avoid meeting his coworkers in an environment that would be most uncomfortable for him.
When he found out on his first day of work that Rhonda was there and he missed his chance to meet her, he nearly started weeping in front of the producers and other writers. When they said she left with some jerk who was drinking too much, he just put up a sad, awkward smile as his eyes watered up.
Now, it’s odd to be inside an event that he’s heard about and imagined in his head for years. Some things are as expected, but other details are different than his mental fabrication.
He makes his way through the room, looking at the thirsty patrons leaning on the bar resembling wolves suckling at their mother’s body.
A shoulder bumps into him, “Hey, slick, watch where you’re going.”
Some of the intruder’s double vodka Collins has spattered his purple shirt, but not enough to be very noticeable. The staggering spiller makes his way to the bar, eyeing the half-empty drink whose ice has mostly
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