shake that eye's hand

She stepped into the the immacualate hall of travertine dreams. Doors lined the walls, brass knobs polished to a tee. Sitting rigidly on the lazy futon, she tapped her foot in time with the grandfather clock, and her own beating heart.

The room was uncomforably crowded, but nobody even made the notion to stop and stare. Standing in the midst, she was exposed to the torrential downpour of the surrounding conversations. Words slurred, doused in liquor. The clinking of glasses. Dust particles refracting mercury haze.