Paul Vincent
The wooden roadhouse sitting at the top of the
hill on the outskirts of town. The highway running
beside it full of cracks. The old neon sign on the
roof still works after fifty years. The joint closed after
the cook passed away. Only on the blackest nights,
when there are no stars, does the sky glow eerie
red at the top of the hill on the outskirts of town.
Who pays the electric bill? His wife who thinks
her husband is working late again and lays out
his blue-striped pajamas on a whim.
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