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Like Narrow Slits in the Sky

Max drummed his fingers on the table. 

He was sitting in a booth at a small diner, a laptop opened in front of him. His eyes scanning the wikipedia for anything weird going on. There were seven cellphones on the table; carved in the back of each was the name of a sin. 

A cup of coffee, piping hot, was among the cellular soldiers. The ashtray beside him was full of butts; he had been sitting there for the better part of the day like a author waiting for inspiration on a cool spring morning. 

"What's he doing?" a waitress asked the other.

"I think he's working," the other replied.

"Is he a novelist?" the first one questioned.

"Your guess is as good as mine," the second said.

The first waitress grabbed the coffee urn and headed to the table.