Margaret had quit texting her passive little notes about family duty.

Brent had run out of throwaway email accounts to ask for three hundred dollars to get the high-speed gaming connection turned back on.

I leaned my forearms on the cool iron railing of the balcony and watched a shopkeeper below roll up his canvas awning for the night.

A woman went by carrying a bunch of yellow mimosa flowers wrapped in brown butcher paper.

There was no graphics card fan roaring up through a bedroom floor.