Ruby

It’s 7AM on a drizzly Wednesday morning when I walk into my Black Widow bar and nightclub. The six-inch heels of my patent black Christian Louboutins clack on the hardwood floor as I make my way, briefcase in hand, Coach purse slung over my shoulder across the walkway to my office. Sylvie is mopping the gross ‘stick’ off the floor from spilt beers and God only knows what else, the acrid smell of cleaner hitting my nose as I progress further into the depths of the darkened building. The black wall makes it even dimmer, an ambience that I prefer to brighter colors.