In the hazy afternoon light through the windows he looked beautiful and dissolute, shirt open at the collar and streaks of golden hair falling into his eyes, like some Regency buck after a long night's dancing.

Smoked like it was fuel and he was going to get every last inch to the gallon.

Above the front door the fanlight glowed blue, delicate as wing-bones.

I said I know my shot when I see it. Sometimes you don't even have to see it. Sometimes you feel it coming, screaming down the sky towards you like a meteor.