Fiction
Lynchedby Paul Heatley
Sam was waiting on the street corner when Bill rolled down the block. It was late, cold out, his hands were deep in the pockets of his jacket, which in turn was zipped all the way up to his throat. His breath came out in great plumes that rose over his head as if he were smoking a cigarette, but he wasn’t smoking.
Bill was smoking. He rolled to a stop next to Sam with the window down, so when Sam got into the car it was just as cold in as it was out. “The heat on, man?” Sam pressed his hands to the vents.
“I don’t mind the cold,” Bill said. He started the car rolling again, flicked the butt of the cigarette out the window.
“Yeah, well I do.” Sam turned up the heat, the blowers. “Out here freezin my fuckin balls off, man.”
“I told you I’d be here by ten.
