I started working on this last night, I haven't got much of a clue as to what I'm doing and I could really use some eyes.

ANY criticism is welcome. Please, rip this apart.

Smoke is such an odd and alluring thing.

He's sat on a black leather armchair scotch in hand while staring at the cigar's marble fumes. He could tell this wasn't him. The black suit, the expensive drinks, the quiet atmosphere and all the static that surrounded it. A pianist was drumming away at his keys somewhere behind him. The bar stationed to his left. A woman manically laughing somewhere on his right. It was a nice place; older, wiser and richer drunks. Some in isolation and glued to the bar, others glued to much younger and handsomer dates. "Everything alright sir?" said a voice somewhere around him. He tried to ignore it, he tried to focus on the pianist's performance. "Sir?". He looked right next to him, and there stood a beautiful waitress with blonde tied hair in a black and white costume. "Um, yes. Everything's fine. I'll have another please". She bent to take his glass, smiled at him, then walked away. He didn't smile back, he didn't want to start a conversation, he didn't want to pay any attention to something that isn't already on his mind, he didn't want that. He's too distracted. Tonight's a night for quiet and painful celebration. He was celebrating the passing of a nightmarish and neglectful past.

He had just returned from his father's funeral.

He checked his watch then flagged the waitress for the bill. The fancy drones around him led on and on. He wanted to leave, but he didn't get that next drink yet. He didn't know how he was going to pay for it. He didn't think of any of that, he just wanted to get drunk. Hell, half the funeral costs alone would cover the costs of these dozen drinks he bought, and that should say something. He put it on his father's credit card. At least his old man left some sort of inheritance. Ironic if you think about it, since the man prided himself with having an abstinance from alcohol. He always thought that he shouldn't have been proud of that. If he had done the things he did and hurt the people he'd hurt, at least alcohol would be an excuse. A way of saying "It wasn't me, it was the drinks". He had more important things to dwell on at the moment, like his newly reacquired orphan status. He swallowed his drink and stood up.

He started stumbling towards a glass door with metal frames while bumping into rich old people that were in a constant civilized **** fight. He could tell his mission was a success because it took him a little longer than a normal person to figure out the intricate workings of the 'Push/Pull' handle. There was a lovely breeze in the alley where he is now puking. His rental ruined, he decided to call it a day and get some sleep. "Where the **** are all the cabs?" he thought as he noticed the lack of automobiles on the road ahead. The watch he had earlier checked had now gone missing, along with his wallet. He would walk home; but in an unrelenting money suckling land like Dubai he had no choice but to call a taxi.

He had to keep his phone with the taxi driver as a collateral of his return with money from his hotel room. He managed to convince the front desk that this drunken excuse for a human was actually the owner of the single bed suite with the lost keycard. He'd always loved hotel rooms, they were welcoming in a way that a prostitute would be: Unfamiliar and used for a short time, but comfortable and somewhat cleaving. Yet somehow the nectar that gave the promise of ataraxia only managed to make him overzealous and emotionally disturbed. He felt alone.
Last edited by ali.guitarkid7 at Nov 20, 2011,
'whilst' isn't archaic. I didn't think it was, anyway. Don't judge an entire piece by one word.

I'm changing it since it came off that way.

EDIT: Nevermind I get what you meant. It's not THAT bad is it?
Last edited by ali.guitarkid7 at Nov 16, 2011,