Driving down 8th Avenue in the rain, past the Gulch and So Bro—old neighborhoods with new names—he revisited cafes and clubs, making a mental mix tape of the good and the bad, tied together like the shinju harness she craved, until she didn’t.
From one haunt to the other, he pulled the phone from his pocket, slid it across the counter, and watched the proprietor shake his head. No.
The past would find him, like film noir, only he was emasculated in a Tinder world, swiping right in search of his wayward femme fatale.
Bogart and Mitchum wept softly.