It's half past midnight and I'm in a shadowy jazz bar in the quiet part of town. I've got a new packet of cigarettes on the table in front of me and a fresh pint in my hand. The singer croons the blues, her voice the husky end of sexy, and she catches my eye. I raise my glass to her and smile, and she tips me a ghost of a wink. I peel the cellophane off the cigarettes and pull off the foil, inhaling the damp and woody scent of newly cut tobacco. I light one and blow smoke up into the clouded air, letting the buzz of the nicotine and alcohol blend with the sigh of the saxophone. The singer works the audience and pauses next to my table, her eyes on mine and her voice in my head. There are tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip, and I see the chips in the varnish of her nails as she lays her hand on mine. She steps away to the next table, but looks back over her shoulder at me, her smile knowing.
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Writing short fiction, monologues and plays