We interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you something that I wrote in January of 2007, when I was apparently on quite a noir kick. This excerpt still hasn’t found its story.
I could smell the whiskey and perfume from the door, before I even laid eyes on her. She was standing by the stairs with the bottle in her hand, wearing my best shirt. I only wear it for weddings and funerals. I wore it to her funeral. She was drunk, but probably not quite as drunk as I was. I don’t remember taking off my coat. Or my shirt. Or my pants. God only knows where my shoes were. My hat lay discarded on the floor. I didn’t give a damn if she were a ghost or an angel, she tasted the same as she always did, bourbon and bittersweet. If she was dead, she was doing a damn good imitation of being alive.