Birch and Rowan
The hum pierced the night before the light did. It was a dull red that bathed the street in a neon glow that neither it nor I needed. I immediately grimaced and regretted letting them get the sign. It’s one thing to be a private detective, it’s another thing to make it public.
They stood there with a grin made morbid in the window looking at me. Their eyes for searching for an answer, some recognition that they had done right. I only nodded.
“It doesn’t make us look like a spa does it,” they asked through cupped hands on the window. Shouting was unnecessary as it was only a single pane that did little more than keep the weather out. Now that I considered it, our name did come across more like a spa than a place for me to drink in silence while nobodies bid to get me out of the bottle.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath.
“What!” Again, through the window and louder than necessary.
I shook my head and let them take that as an answer to everything, nothing, whatever they wanted. They usually did. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that every sad sack looking for a seaweed scrub would be on our door now. They’d just have to live with the consequences of turning people away while I got to nothing.
The bottle sloshed and the glass clinked as I pulled open the bottom drawer, just as they should. Nothing. Sounds better than what’s on the shingle we threw up - Birch and Rowan. A goddamn spa if I ever heard of one. Better than calling us Private Dicks, I guess.
Today’s art is courtesy of Stanley Reznikov from Ballwin, USA.