The Socialite

Champagne. Stuff of magic.

I watch people file into the club through my flute – second of the night, already half-empty. Is it the amount of bubbly I’ve drunk, is it the way the bubbles distort my vision? I don’t know. But for a moment, I see my life with a stranger’s eyes, I see a train wreck in slow motion, I see nothing but emptiness.

I empty my flute to fill this void, exchange it for a full one, clink glasses with anybody who’s somebody and smile like I mean it. Night in, night out.

Stuff of magic, champagne.