At the far end of the room
The chandelier keeps watch.
Its red crystals burn softly in the dark — the room's only fire, and the one you find yourself walking towards.
When the city goes dark, one room begins to glow. Velvet, brass, amber glass — the other face of the night.
Here, light is never switched on.
It settles — on a glass,
a face, a single red pendant of crystal.
A tray, a cocktail or two, the conversation dropping half a tone. Around you, the room falls quiet.
The half-light closes in like a private drawing room — you are no longer quite in the city at all.
Its red crystals burn softly in the dark — the room's only fire, and the one you find yourself walking towards.
You settle into the shadow of a painting that keeps its secrets. A warm halo, a deep armchair.
Here, you are not seen — you watch.
Two armchairs, a low light, and all the time in the world. You meet here for a drink, a confidence — or to say nothing at all.