HONG KONG | 1 1  p . m .

Happy Endings
Victoria Burrows

Suzie climbs the slick stone stairs into the dark bar. Mirrors, glass and
marble fracture the space into confounding planes, leaving her, already
dizzy from being so high up, with the unsettling feeling that she could
step out into nothingness. She runs her fingers along the wall for reas-
surance before pushing out between low tables of chattering drinkers.
She takes a seat at one of the plush square stools at the window.
There’s a tightness in the pit of her stomach, something between nerves
and excitement. She takes a deep breath and composes herself, straight-
ening her back and lifting her chin.
The vista stuns her for a second. As it always does. The skyscrapers
across the darkened harbour, lit with kaleidoscopic swirls, squares and
blinks of neon, stretch along the horizon as far as the eye can see. Signs
flash with the names of multinational corporations and electronic goods;
the colours bleed into the onyx blackness of the water forming oily strips
of purple, red and blue that shimmy like a line of burlesque dancers.
Windows, small blocks of light, wink in the towering monoliths and
cast an unhealthy glow on the charcoal cloudbank above the city. The
ragged mountains cradling the city look like black cut-outs.
Suzie’s reverie is broken by a petite waitress who hands her a menu,
leans over and shines her small torch on the page. As the waitress bends
her neck, her black hair slips forward, revealing a small diamond stud
that glitters from her earlobe. Suzie shouts her order over the din: a
ridiculously overpriced honey, ginseng and green tea martini.

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