A LONE MAN, mid to late thirties squats underneath the diner window.

Above him, through the window, couple, mid-twenties, sits in a booth sucking down ice cream Sundays.

Above the couple is a red neon OPEN sign.

The O and the N flicker on and off in opposing flurries.

The background of the diner fades into a kaleidoscopic swirl of Formica, fish tanks, and pink fluorescence.

The rain begins to soak through the LONE MAN's windbreaker.

He hunches the collar around his neck, and shivers.

Rivulets of rainwater drip from the end of the bill of his baseball cap.

The man pulls a cigarette from his pocket.

He places is between his thumb and forefinger.

His lips fix the filter into the opening of his mouth.

The man retrieves a book of matches from his pocket.

He opens the matchbook.

Two matches remain.

He peels one match from the cardboard fasten.

His trembling fingers drop the match onto the wet pavement.

The Man closes his eyes.

He bends the second match from the frame, and strikes the white tip.

It catches, the whole matchbook starts to burn.

The man begins to pull the matchbook to the cigarette, he holds back, contemplates the fire.
The raindrops on his face glow in the firelight.

He smiles.

Fade to Black.

Interior diner, same evening.

The man is now sitting in the same booth he squatted beneath earlier in the evening.

The soft rain from earlier has escalated into a thunderstorm.

Sitting across from the man is a GIRL in her mid-teens, wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and matching rubber boots.

Adjacent to the booth is a hallway with a pay phone at the left end of the open tip.

The girl is hunched outward from the booth, with her leg outstretched from underneath her skirt.

She contemplates her toes, as they create ripples and bends in the boot's rubber.

The Man rests his head against the window and stares through the red neon raindrop distortions.

His eyes track the racing bulbs of liquid as they slide down the windowpane.

A cigarette is fixed in his left hand.

It is burnt to the filter.

The cigarette has not been ashed.

Ever.

The pay phone at the end of the hallway rings.

The girl in the rain slicker springs from her seat and runs to answer the phone.

The girl smiles and starts to laugh and commiserate with the person she is speaking to.

The man closes his eyes.

The noise and humdrum of the diner fades into the electric drone of the neon open sign.

The drone of the sign grows steadily louder and shriller.
The man shuts his eyes tighter and tighter until the sockets scrunch into themselves.

The drone transmogrifies into a scream.

The man bolts from the booth to the exit.

The girl drops the phone.

Her arms slouch to her sides.

The girl turns her head away, as the man pauses to stare at her.

The man opens his mouth as if to say something.

He glances into an overhead light.

He swings the exit open, and leaves.

The girl leans into the casing of the pay phone.

She stares at the floor.

The phone dangles from a cord.

Static.