Nighthawks

A man's outstretched thumb atop warm asphalt—no luggage. Barefoot. Clothes caked in dirt. Bloody collar. Headlights wash over, and she sees. Not again, she thinks. Like in Reno. His right eye’s busted. Jaw crooked too. Told him not to do it. Same as in Laughlin. Now Boyle Heights. "But I'm a pool shark," he said, blowing kisses. Jeep tires spit gravel. His brightened shoulders fall beneath blackened palm trees. She chokes over words. Sparks twin cigarettes. 
“Get in.” 

Nolan Knight