One two three four five six seven. Count them. One two three four five six seven. Seven cigarette butts. Seven crimson eyes. They hang out at the pier after dark, slumped against the fractured balustrade, untouched by moonlight. Without cigarettes they’d be an amorphous black blob. I’d have no clue how many lurk in the shadows. Smoking is a dirty habit. One two three four five six seven.
Angus is late. Usually his tugboat pulls up a couple minutes after midnight. What can I do? The man has me by the balls. I’d do anything for Marjorie after what happened to our daughter. She was only three years old.
One two three four five six seven. C’mon, Angus. C’mon, you son of a b***h. Don’t make me wait all night. I can feel them staring at me. Why don’t they say anything? Why don’t I ever hear th
