Writing just for the hell of it and to get better. Stepping out of my comfort zone of lab reportsđ„°đ«¶
Writing just for the hell of it and to get better. Stepping out of my comfort zone of lab reportsđ„°đ«¶
His feet heavily thump with every trudged step on the concrete street below. Around him, the air is heavy with sweetened hot wine and the chorus of multiple conversations intertwine with joyful music playing from hidden speakers amongst the decoration. The crowd is dense, and with every step he takes, he must wait an extra few seconds before the drunken group before him shifts. Congested markets are overwhelming, and being behind a large group dead set on not separating amongst these narrow streets is worse. Only one member within the ranks seems sober, a designated driver perhaps. A tall women who seems 1 more uncoordinated stumble away from breaking down on the street as her dark-haired friend with a red hat trusts all her weight onto her side. Red hat can barely stand, yet seems more than happy snuggling into her sober friendâs side, chattering endlessly to another inebriated man to her right. It looks tiring preventing someone from face-planting into the concrete. Yet a gleam of fondness is hidden behind the tall womanâs eyes past the panicked sheen. A look he doesnât have much interest in noticing. Instead, he looks at a standâs homemade tea leaves collection to busy himself. But not a second later hears a muffled thump in front of him. Fascinating considering how loud it is but a single glance tells him red hat dropped her purse. Their whole crowd bursts in scandalized oohâs. Hearing this, the tall woman shifts to the right to pick up the purse. Leaving an opening to her left. âThank godâ he mumbles and before his chance slips, he quickly slips by her (ignoring the ruffled âheyâ yelled at him after bumping another patron). With a relieved sigh of freedom, he looks ahead. Only to groan in dispair seeing another intoxicated crowd in front of him.
