Please Tell Me

by Mike Omer

Unlike his associates, he seemed almost like a man snatched from that era of noir movies, where detectives drank whiskey in their dark offices while women in red dresses told them about their woes.

What was it about the act of brushing that made thinking that much easier? It was as if the faint tugging on her scalp loosened the sticky thoughts from within, letting them tumble freely in her mind.

She turned around, couldn’t see him. The still rumbling thunder and the pouring rain made it impossible to hear anything else.

He turned on the coffee machine. “I’m going to make you some coffee,” he grumbled. “Good coffee. First cup is on the house. Just to make sure you still remember what that tastes like.”