A pile of party

White walls and floors, black outdoors. Art sits here and there - green and sometimes shiny.

In the middle of the floor two red leather sofas house a pile of party. Initially the party had been upstanding but it had lost it's stability and found need to collapse on to the tomato skin design ponse. The hot skin might have attracted them but the central ceiling fan was probably the main reason for the choice of location.

Up right English gent in tropical khaki and sandals took a conventional seat. He talked of reasons and the weather. He was always below - sat as others moved by to the salad or stooped to coffee table brownies.

Gothic creative type B balanced on a sofa arm, his hips angled like his hat. His too perfectly dark and too perfectly shaped beard was left to be perfect, all his facial communication happened as his droopy eyes remembered to express in line with the words that shot out. He spoke like a delayed actor - stock response speedily delivered complete with the well worn tones of camp. Siouxsie Sioux lives on in fabric form with irony and without sleeves. Like the pearly Victorians brooch and the tilted brim, there was a deliberateness in the act of smoking and drinking.

In contrast creative type D was smoking and drinking for sustenance. As is his want he occupied a darkened corner. Once spoken to energetic pacing, lunging and verbalizing burnt you. Darkness sat in his face.

A single fan draped herself across type B, she was part of his outfit. Skeletal and staccato quick tongued she roared. Her body was open, her dress a requirement of company worn for no purpose. She grasped and shoved her small lean breasts into a cleavage as she illustrated her tale, her fatless face contorted like her nipples under the fabric support of her halter.

corporate type C had been caught under the rubble of the collapse, she'd come to rescue corporate type a who had been invited because art needs consumers. Her eyeliner had been applied in an attempt to straighten her round bulging desperately earnest eyes, it went straight not following the curve only leaving a hopeful gap. Her sleek trim thighs seemed the unlikely recipients of the pale and pink fat rolls that sat below the fading blue shirt of type A. He seemed desperately unsure, panicked by every moment.

"I'm so sick of Dom Perignon"
"I don't even like Dom Perignon"

I have conversations...

"conceptual art must have moved on the portrayl of the nude"
"intimacy is the real journey"
"yoga changed my life"
"You're going to sell people cool"
"I keep meeting triathletes"

Discontented, mouths are filled with blinis and minds drugged with wine. The next event is planned, thirsty for sensation empty bodies move on.