My Cardboard Balcony

Sensory Overload by Belinda Roddie On the tip of my nose, a loud wildfire grows. It spreads, and my entire face is burning bright. Could it be the cinnamon bourbon I've consumed, or is it from the light of the heavy chandeliers in the room? Or the fixation I have on the lady in the green dress, perched at the corner of the bar with her neck stretched out like a bird's? No matter the answer, I am shaking from the smoke brewing hot in my throat. I feel like I'm being choked, but another drink won't cure that. The damn dame orders a cocktail with a cherry, and she lets the dark, red orb descend between her dark, red lips. The stem protrudes from that slim, subtle smile. I am vexed and perturbed. My legs lock up, my eyes watering. I am perplexed and disturbed. All the while, I am inflicted by fever. I smell my own sweat, like scorched sugar, and I can't stop shivering. I slap down a wad of bills, demand that the bartender keep the change, a

"Did you bring your keys?" I frowned. "Keys? I don't have any keys. I've never had keys." Martin's furrowed brow was dark and set, as if he were attempting to mimic me. "You didn't get keys from the boss?" "Nope." He sighed. "Welp," he said, crossing his arms. "Looks like we're stuck in the cold for another hour." "Joy," I muttered, staring helplessly through the window at the empty office.