A/N: This is just a look into a section of the lives of those mad mad men. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing from this show.
The air is weighted with a smoky haze. At every table there is a cigarette in every hand, and a drink in the other. At every table men sit with their business prospects; bosses; colleagues; mistresses, with bodies owning the chairs they sit in. This is their world; individually they are the kings of this place. In the corner is a stage and on it a band plays and a woman sings in the lusty jazz voice, but they are deaf to her. She is a prop. Everything here is a prop to be worked with, to add to every man's mysterious power. And yet they are like clones. All dressed in the finest of black or grey suits; all with their hair slicked back and some with fedoras. They all drink, they all smoke. At one point or another, they all bring the women that aren't their wives here; the many different women.
The lights in this place are always dimmed. As for the privacy they give, to what end? Here, every man is entitled to his secrets. No wife will find out about the other woman, no boss will know about the 'hush-hush' deals made behind their backs. This is a sacred place. Out in the world these men dominate, but are also controlled by other men. There is the boss, the supervisor, the higher ups. Out in the world they have only their wives to govern, their secretaries, and the men that may be under them. Here they have it all.
In the darker corners mistresses are draped over the men without touching them. The sit beside the men; they lightly place a hand here, they cast their eyes there. Their lips are red, their dresses so much more than what a wife would wear; dresses that cling. Their eyes suggest things, offer things. And the men smile, owning this chair, owning this table; this drink; this woman; this moment in time.
And when the singer in the corner, and the band behind her, suddenly jump into a faster jive picking up speed and sound, it takes a moment for the men to hear it. And they barely grant her the slightest bemused glance when they finally do. The music slows once more and the moment never happened; it has already been forgotten. This woman and her music is just a background addition to the lives of these men.
These Mad Men.
