Sheree Shatsky

It’s cocktail hour. Old money dressed for drinks. A young man sits in an orange tufted high back chair edged in mahogany. He stabs out his cigarette and lights another. He’ll listen to the small talk for one more smoke before cutting out to the backwater where he can drink with the locals. A woman sits close by in a matching chair. She’s all legs and a bottle of scotch. A cocktail napkin is pressed beneath her glass to catch the drip of family secrets.