The room is full.
Thousands of snowflakes dropped on the tables of the bar.
The crowd, forms a thick coat of hazy noise.

Statement haircuts, fashionable intonations, high heels on the floor, tinkling glasses,

dot     dot   dot,    we hear.

Rain falling on a pond, dot dot dot, as the room and the glasses fill up.


A chic attitude lies mainly in a careful choice of the drink that the guest
holds at the party held in one of the bars that the city is packed with.

This is a long sentence where each word finds its stance.


A large bay window opens to a railway dividing the city in halves.

In sunset shades from pink to blue,
one side looks at the other,
as would forbidden lovers do.

The crowd is swarming about,
each occurrence
of each guest
becomes interchangeable.

People iterating in different equations,

dot    dot   dot,    makes the roulette
before settling on the next set of guests.

She,
is wearing a short sleeveless black dress, bought specially for the occasion.

The bar is full of specially picked dresses,
each a little bit different,         dit     dat    dot,    tasteful horizon.


In french, looking in the mirror is se regarder dans la glace.

Some can read the future in coffee grounds,
dot   dot   dot,    in her pinot noir.

Amusing blue lagoons, deep sensual reds, pink cosmos and luminous martinis.

The liquor holds the bearer. She, has it in hand.
A line breaks when a cut is made, and at some point the sentence opens to blank.


She gets up and makes her way to the bathroom.
Silence is nowhere to be found.

Stood before the sink, appears the absence of the crowd.
A lock of my hair has evaded from my effortlessly chic bun.
Slick silhouette, careful details, my body moves but lacks motion.

Bits of food in between my teeth, my mouth is full I cannot speak.
           A look in the mirror.
Argh. I spit on it, my saliva slips like a fallen hair on satin sheets.

Staring for a minute at the liquid blob gliding down.
Frustrated it did not alter her reflected outline.

Still she stares,
her eyes rolling down forty-five degrees to the sink.

The spit takes the shape of a little snail.

Through the crack of the bathroom door he goes,
gently crawls his way up to the bar tables.

It gracefully takes a seat in between a gin fizz and a glass of rosé,
before, finally folding inside its shell.

Ready, to introduce to the crowd the assertion of its own little outfit.

Among cocktails,    dot     dot     dot, wants to do the snail.

With the tip of her hand she pushes the bathroom door
and walks back into the room,

nth occurrence of her well drawn silhouette.


No snails in sight.
A glass is either proofed or broken down.

The setting sun outside suffocates the room.
All that there is to see and say, lies there already.

It has all it takes to forever begin again.
Like a ticking clock or a drink on the rocks.

Back to her seat.
The tablecloth lays like a sentence about to be pronounced,
or a drunkard not yet

completely silent.