Across from me to my left, a man and a woman silently stare straight ahead at the white-capped, blonde clerk busy cleaning dishes. The fedora-wearing man negligently nurses a cigarette while the woman, red haired, in her late 30s I guess, peers at her well-manicured nails. There is no juke box, there is no noise except for the occasional gurgling of the twin coffee percolators on the nearby counter; it’s a perfect three-in-the-morning silence, made for night hawks and lonely hearts. She is thin, even gaunt, the silky fabric of her red dress draped across her shoulders, opening up across a V of indifferent pale flesh. She sports scarlet lipstick, just like you imagined vamps did in black-and-white 40s noir movies. They haven’t spoken to each other since I walked into the joint. But their body movement betrays the fact they are a couple. Only deep familiarity expresses itself, communicates in such a display of common silence. Outside, it’s been ages since even a car has driven by. We are enveloped in a sea of dead time, listening to the mute voice of the downtown Los Angeles night.
