Maybe it’s the summer heat tonight.  Maybe it’s that it never rains in the desert.  Whatever it is, I’m in the mood for that place that exists within my memory of film noir.

The mysteries, the doomed romances, the remembered worlds of lurid neon signs reflected on rain-drenched streets in the night.  You know the place.  It’s the deserted area down by the docks.  There‘s always a sad café there where losers can get out of the rain and linger over a cup of coffee.  It’s the kind of joint that doesn’t need to advertise, because its customers are drawn there by their fates.  A kind-hearted waitress stands behind the counter and watches everything with eyes that have seen a thousand dreams go wrong.  Upstairs you can rent a lonely room where the light bulb is a man’s only friend.  This is a world for which the saxophone was invented.

Listening to the jukebox, I turn and ask the waitress to pour me another cup.  Thanks, sunshine.  I’ve got brilliant writing to do tonight, and the powers of a man’s mind is in direct proportion to the amount of coffee he drinks.



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