FICTION:
Corbin's been in his red booth since nine o'clock. He came in through back of The Halifax Club and he waits in the back. When he wants service, there's a panel with a white enamel button. He presses the button and orders another glass of water. Twist of lemon. No ice. Corbin won't recognize the person he seeks, but he'll know when he sees him -- or her. The eyes will look toward him behind the table, empty save for the ashtray and the glass of water. In the crowd, no one yet looks toward his booth or pale reflections of himself on the black marble above the curved banquette. He puts another cigarette into the ashtray with the trapdoor. Smokes them halfway down and lets them burn themselves out. |
(Photo by Sean Smuda) |
