"This passive stuff is for the birds, Michael," he shook his head slowly like a pendulum.
The night was growing darker, and you could see your breath.
Sam's sense of doom wanted for nothing. His face was dry, his chest hollow.
The trees twisted up from the ground like Black licorice.
"Mary is not going to like this," is all Michael said.
The quiet hung in the air, like the wind between the blades of a chopper. It was only a matter of time before it came around again.
The guys went inside the bar, the smoke from their cigarettes hanging in the air like a magic carpet.
Then it was gone.
The jukebox and the shrieking nightlife inside the bar overtook them as they went back inside, the pool sharks tapping their way to a win, the pick-up lines at the bar stools, and the bartender's worn but expectant face.
"What'll it be, fellas?"
Sam put his fist on the table.