Just a job, he thinks as he scans the room and chooses a seat. A high stool with its back to the wall. Colored lights alternate. Showy, he thinks, but that's the point. He needs info but he's not sure who from. He'll save time and be direct. He loads from memory, motions to the girl.
Ochre Idyls
Poems, Haiku/Tanka, Short Fictions