The Night, It Calls Me

Clinking glasses, bubbling with champagne froth, coats the colour of suede shoes brushing against one another. Everywhere I look, the same flashy wide-toothed grin. My fingers begin to turn the same shade as my cufflinks as I stand there, freezing half to death on the balcony. Chevies pull up while valets park them next to Rolls Royce and Aston Martins. Slaughtered foxes and minks mounted like prizes, wrapped around fat necks alongside bulging Japanese pearls. 

I tip back the burning whiskey, sliding smoothly down my throat as the rounded ball of ice sloshes around the glass. There's a familiar redhead down by the pruned garden, the gravel crunching beneath her glass slippers. It ain't midnight yet.

The night is still young, waiting for me to reach out and pluck it like a ripe fruit.