The art of wasting time

As I move through the street I feel transparent. Herds of squealing women bump past me followed by sloppy men covered in layers of cigarette smoke and the smell of highly artificial cologne. I am a spectator in a street full of players. A blurry woman appears in front of a glowing doorway and invites me in, I refuse as my cigarette is still lit but she disregards my privacy and follows me. “Tick tock” she says, “happy hour is almost over.” She continues to be invasive by pulling me closer so I cave and consent to follow her lead. The futuristic lighting from outside softens to a sensual pink. I follow the woman into a voyeuristic crowd and come to regret all my choices this evening.





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