They gather in a hotel lounge, one with poignant narrative; a salient atmosphere apt for the weekend ahead. Amid words they cluster. Their sentences align as conversational paragraphs pave a resolute alliance. They are writers after all.
‘Hi, I’m Sonia’ she lilts, her paisley print Hermès unravelling as she speaks. It floats leisurely down her body, landing deftly on the patterned Axminister. All at once the marks on her neck are visible.
Discoloured welts sit naked against their newly coloured friends who stand defiant with their fresh apologies.
Spitting in disgust the open fire flames around its logs, protecting against the draft.
Sonia falters. Wrapping her scarf around his trophy, she wanders over to the bar.
Sliding onto a stool she watches them. A room full of stories, a critics delight.
The man with the black wavy hair, by the window styles a navy Henry Poole that screams money. Dark brown Church’s tap on his toes. How very Prince of Wales she thinks.
Housing a fifteen-year-old Macallen, she silently raises her glass and toasts his superficial charm.
Waves of bergamot and apple give way to vanilla overtures, diluting her rich sherry-seasoned oak cask drink. Her resolve falters. She closes her eyes. Every part of her is attuned. She can hear and feel his exhale against her neck. His nibble penetrating her pearl studded ears.
Fear invades. Leaving her shelter she circles the room seeking friendship and safety, her figure-hugging pencil skirt straining to keep up.
She looks to the window, he is gone.
She panic’s and tries to grab a nearby hand. The group is dispersing. After toasting their accolades, they are done for the night.
Her Jackie Kennedy esq hat falters. Her trembling fingers strain against her gloves. She looks at the pen on their table.
‘Write him right. I can’t stand another night.’