Club Cynic

I'm sitting at a table by myself, a half dead cigarette limply smoldering in my left hand between my first two fingers. This smoky place is full of that annoyingly upbeat swing music that makes my ears want to detach from my head and run away screaming.

The drink currently resting against my right hand, condensating into my palm and onto the greasy white table cloth is watered down, much like the smiles I've receive from the other occupants of this place when they see that I'm only here for the gin—and poor tasting gin at that.

All of those shallow couples on the dance floor don't realize how they're wasting their meaningless lives on that sweaty tiled panel, the men in their embarrassing pastel suits, the women in their screaming bright floral dresses and white heels. It's easy to scoff, considering my own suit is modestly black.

The heated energy in this place is stifling, and I think I'll leave once I've finished my cigarette and thin drink, because in a lively place like this, I'm the man that doesn't blend in.


A short vignette written in first person. Originally, this was an English assignment in which we were asked to write a short scene from the eyes of someone at a club in the 1940s, and I decided to publish mine here, because I liked it so much.