So what do you do when you can’t fix the last big problem on your PC and you’ve got an afternoon to kill?
You fiddle with blog templates and write bad noir ripoffs that don’t go anywhere.
The sign over the door read S m’s B r & E tery, blinking on and off in red. (The a’s had been smashed out by some wise guy trying to make a point and regulars with a sense of humor usually left notes with friends saying they were going to ‘sm’s’.)
Light mist drifted down onto shiny black streets — motors putted by and threw it back up at the sky in a half-hearted attempt at a life-cycle. Men in dark suits and long coats held the arms of women in war-era dresses as they moved along: the women wore pillbox caps, the men fedoras.
In the nook of a building’s entryway, light flared. A hard match held near a hard face, eyes scanning the street over the edge of the wind-blocking hand as the cigarette lit. Headlights washed over the man, revealing a stocky frame that held up a double-breasted suit, black trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat like they’d been hung over a refrigerator to dry out.
He tossed away the match, exhaled, and stepped onto the walk.