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.
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