The end of the line

She drank from a wine glass you could feasibly keep a fish in, drawing long drags from stained fingers. Inside the bar was quiet, positioned awkwardly between fun pubs- stag and hens running in packs. Their L-plates professing an inexperience barely believed by anyone. She walked back in, faltering slightly then trying to compose herself as she got back to her seat. The others had left: to husbands,. children, dogs and prime time TV on worn and comfy sofas.

She didn’t want to leave and her happy hour had continued well past seven... past eight... past nine and it was now reaching the end. Hazily, she knew to go home and sleep. Up at seven, work at nine. However, the thought of the empty divan held off the dialling of the taxi. Instead, she flicked through her contacts, reaching the ‘P’s, she pressed to call, but no one was there and the line was dead.