He buttoned his coat before pushing open the outer door of the diner. The air was damp, tinged with car exhaust and diesel. The first flakes of a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca—what a smile! She reminded him of the young Sinatra in From Here To Eternity, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend was heavier and looked unmarried, a career teacher, maybe. Problems on short leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a watch cap over his ears, and walked toward the Old Port.
A car pulled over. "Olive Oil!" George Goodbean shouted. "Want a ride?"
"Taking my life in my hands," Oliver said, getting in.
"It's a good day to die," George said.
"Aren't we romantic."
"Artists live on the edge, Olive Oil. Where the view is." A pickup passed at high speed, hitting a pothole and splattering mud across the windshield. "Moron!" George reached for the wiper switch.
The street reappeared. "Ahh," Oliver said, "now there's a view."
"Why is it, the worse the weather, the worse they drive?" George asked.
"Dunno. It isn't even bad yet."
"Assholes," George said.