Half-finished, or should that be half-started and never to be finished...

The painted Mars-red floorboards are scuffed and worn, but there's enough sheen that the light from the drinks fridge casts dappled patterns across the undulating surface. She's staring at it for several minutes before she notices that the music's stopped. A female voice eventually breaks the silence with a grandiose, soulful wailing "Get out of my life, why don't you babe, you keep me hanging on...". The daylight's beginning to fade and the primary red and white neon Illy sign comes to life in the gloaming, while she fades like the light.

On her second cup of coffee now, she sinks lower into the buttoned and threadbare chair, her head resting heavily on the padded wing. Tired and empty she hopes that as she closes her eyes she'll drift off with the rhythms pulsating through the air. But it won't happen. She's been too hurt to forget that easily; it's still all so raw and she feels wrung out and betrayed.