The Night Hawks sit in the old diner, forty years past its opening, twelve on the Charger parked on the asphalt in the back. Streetlight Cigars and Stubble Like Mount Rushmore hunch over the bar as the bartender washes the last glasses clean and wipes his beaten hands. He was a boxer, back when back-when wasn’t a thing. He’s got the starry night foxtrots pinned on the wall and a dream jar full of change, but his dreamer is long gone. The woman in red and her fedora man laugh long into the night, but all he sees is a window into decades past.

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