Yesterday: a day with a hard-boiled master
I got up sluggishly from my bed, let a cough rattle in my throat, and went into the bathroom.
The complexion in the bathroom mirror was grey, brown eyes misty and dull.
Men have been worse, I thought, but better men have called in sick.
I made the call, said I would not be coming in and was told that was sensible. I was alone in the house, except for the two cats.
Felines, not jazz musicians.
I don’t always get on with cats.
I went back to my bed, picked up a novel with a grey and red dust jacket: Dashiell Hammet, “The Glass Key”.
I shrugged without curiosity, rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling, remembered Cate Blanchett’s kid is named after this Dashiell guy. Built a big name in the ‘30s.
I cracked the novel open.
“Huh,” I said an hour later, “I’d heard this guy could put words on a page.”
I turned pages, ignored the cats, my eyes regaining something of their keen glitter.
Outside, clouds spread from the east like an ink stain on a blotter. I couldn’t tell you if I noticed when the rain first started smearing the dusty windows.
Later, I closed the book and put it down.
I looked at the cats without enmity.
“Not a bad way to spend a day,” I said.
(Picture: Alan Ladd & Veronica Lake in "The Glass Key")