No Music

Veronica stalled with one foot over the threshold, causing Harley to bump against her shoulderblades. Something wasn't right here. It rolled right up and hit her in the face.

"No music?" Harley noticed, a beat late.

Absence is presence. There was not a trace of melody in the No tonight, there was not even a snatch of rhythm from some gigless drummer working out a solo on the side of his beer glass. Everybody at the bar seemed stuck in some kind of fit, staring up through gathering webs of passive smoke at the common screen.

"The threat of chemical attacks on Israel and Saudi Arabia," Tom Brokaw greeted them.