You know those kind of nights.
You'd been swilling dollar domestics out of a fingerprinted glass at Lou's, then had your ass thrown out in the pouring rain after a bit of a disagreement over your tab. You think your rib is cracked, but you're still in a dazed stupor and your stomach is doing cartwheels underneath your torn button-down.
Big, fat drops slapped down on your matted hair as you staggered to the nearest all-night diner, a holy refuge for the late night lush. Your rag doll form slumped down in the nearest booth, next to the window with the neon sign, as you propped yourself up against the wall. A sideways grin crossed your face as the waitress slinked over to the table, black rings under her eyes and hair askew. She had a beautiful sadness about her, a defeated glow that made you want to sit her down and buy her a decent meal. Instead, however, you sighed and thought about how much she looked like Mona.
"Coffee," you growled, "just bring the whole damn pot." You paused for a second, then added, "nothing for the misses," as you leaned on the empty seat next to you. The fluorescents flickered above you, and she was gone.
Now the clock reads five after four, and the chef is speaking to the owner in a strange language behind the Formica. You're sweating bullets, and the inside of your mouth tastes worse than the ashtray in front of you. As you pick the pieces of gravel out of the side of your face, you look for your hat and prepare to hail a cab home and lick your wounds. It's only when you look down that you see them; two Kents, lying like lovers in the mashed up pack on the table. You look over to the waitress, with her razor sadness and sleepless eyes, and she smiles. It's only then that you decide to stay a while and watch the rain.
And somewhere in the distance, you can just make out the mournful call of a single saxophone, fanfare for another broken night.