Persimons and dirty martinis

What's the sound: sizzle from the oven. Lights off in the fish tank, night, lights on in the living room, no red glow from the curtains on the window. Music loud, accusations of being bad neighbours. It is Thursday night. Coffee table needs to be washed down, hosed off, covered in gasoline and set alight. Shoes by the door, high heels reminiscient of 1945, navy blue, they belong to the woman in the navy dress with white polka dots. Her red lipstick is brighter than the curtains, a bit of a shine when the light hits her lips as she speaks. Her hair is finger waved perfection, brown and shiny, glossy like her eyes. She hooks a perfectly manicured finger in the pearls around her neck and rests her feet on the coffee table. She is beginning to get drunk and a dribble from her martini hits the carpet as she bends forward to put it on the table. She is telling stories about the last man she slept with, a married man who is part owner of the bar next door to where she'd been out with the girls the night before. She feels bad for his wife but she doesn't seem angry that he didn't bother to tell her he was married to the cute little nurse. Her language slowly becomes more foul as she begins to describe how their intimacy failed to thrill her. Her voice trails off as she stares after the olive in her martini. Her stockinged feet now fall gracefully to the floor, a shade different than the beige carpet. Her friend watches her, wonders where she bought the bra that gives her such amazing cleavage, wonders where the boys are tonight. Wonders where they could go within walking distance of home to pick up, wonders if they could both score on the same night. Wonders if they could score with nice boys who weren't more interested in doing a line of blow off their chests. Her friend wants to know how he could go back to his wife after she gave him a blow job and tell her he merely had a late night at work. Again. The martinis are starting to go to their heads and she asks the woman with the red lipstick if she feels like going out. Her friend looks at her like she's crazy and looks at her stockinged feet and when their eyes meet again they are giggling like schoolgirls, racing to the bathroom to fix their makeup. She shakes her head as they leave the basement apartment - they could definitely be mistaken for nice girls at first glance. They could definitely be nice girls - if they wanted to.