Pop! Goes a story!

As I sat at my corner desk -- when I was supposed to be proofreading -- this bit of internal monologue came to me.  I don't know much about her or her story, but I know that she's either a journalist or works for a police department or a private eye and the atmosphere has a tinge of noir to it.  I can hear the whir of an old, wobbly metal fan, because it's a hot and sticky night.  But the air is stale in the open room where her desk sits nestled amongst several others.  It's somewhere in Louisiana or Mississippi and you can smell the sweet burn of cigarillo smoke oozing in from the street, but there's not enough of a breeze coming through the tall windows to really move the scent.  It just hangs in the air.  It's before the computer age, because she's working on a typewriter, earlier than an electric.  Era seems to be somewhere between the 1930s and 1960s.  I'm really intrigued by her and the setting.  Enjoy!  

I work better at night.  At least, that's what I always say - better.  I actually work at night, runs closer to the truth.  Just ask Hollins, I kept him up plenty of times.  Night is when all the petty distractions fade until there's nothing left, but the work.  And when that darkness pushes everything else aside, I sit in front of this machine and pour out their lives one bouncing, clicked keystroke at a time until each tapped out piece slides into place to form a picture, a story of a life.  A story that reflects me in sharp and unforgiving edges without the benefit of good lighting.  Because at night, in their stories, I can't hide.  I wrap myself in daylight to hide in plain sight, where everyone thinks they see me.  All they ever see is the dazzling light that covers me.  So, in the night, I find their stories.  In their stories, I find me.