“So, what’s the skinny?” he’d drawl, his hat dipped low over his eyes.
Dating Burt was like living in a hardboiled film noir.
A Sam Spade wannabe, Burt threw around words like “copper” and “goon.” He wore a sweat-stained fedora and crumpled khaki trench coat, drank cheap bourbon and smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes.
By “smoked,” I mean he’d let a smoldering cig dangle from the corner of his mouth, never actually taking a drag, just letting the ash and embers fall wherever.
I swear to God though, if he calls me, “broad” one more time, he’ll be feeding the fishes.