Date: 18th November
A droplet of water blows in the night’s frigid wind. It comes to rest on a dark mass of fabric and is not noticed by the wearer of the 3-quarter length jacket before it disappears between the fibres.
Randall Capon, Private Eye, lets his face retreat further beneath his upturned collar as he treads on the remnants of his last cigarette.
His eye stops fleetingly on the pallid, flickering reflection of the BuckyStar Cafe’s neon sign on the damp sidewalk. He’s tramped the entire town looking for his next box of Marlboro’s.
This place is his last hope.