This is a little different from my usual.
A couple of days ago, I had dinner with friends. They live close to me, so I can walk there and back. What with food, wine, conversation, wine, conversation, and a little more wine, it was close to midnight by the time I wandered off home.
It had been raining lightly but steadily all day, and the streets and the air were saturated. As I walked up Broadview Avenue, the streetlights reflecting off the wet asphalt made me think of those old detective movies, where the hero is only a little better than the villain, the girl is no better than she should be, and everybody comes to a bad end. It was all inky-black shadows and little pools of light. It was the kind of night where you just know something is happening, and if it isn’t, it should be.
“There are eight million stories in the naked city …”
(Time to dig out my copies of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett and renew my old friendship.)