Long couches and low tables spread around the lounge. Black curtains covered walls and ceiling. The Insomniacs Club had no windows. A large fridge with a glass door packed with Beerlao bottles was the main light source, throwing long shadows. The smell of m*******a wafted through the air-conditioned room. Small groups of people mooched around talking in hushed tones. Jazz, not quite insipid, but certainly not free, poured from invisible speakers.
A feisty-looking girl sat on the green felt of the only pool table, nursing a beer, looking distractedly in his direction. The dim glow of the table’s overhead lights lent her a wonderfully remote aura.
The fridge was guarded by a dwarf who perched on a low stool like a retired albatross. A small person. A very small person sucking on a joint al
