It Works If You Work It

The floors of these sordid basement rooms made your hands feel sticky, even if they never even came close to touching them. It was a bad dream of a place; where grandiose proclamations, half-assed promises and assorted shame coagulated in a thin film across the tile, which was always poorly mopped, and inevitably crusting in the corners. I stared down into the last remaining inch of my tepid black coffee. I could see my distorted reflection, though thoughts of my own glaring imperfections would have to wait until it was my turn to speak. Tonight, my objective was simple - avoid eye contact with two people in the room: the enthusiastic old-timer who was chairing the meeting, and the tattooed, tumultuous, fuck-you stare of a bad news brunette.