THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

“Nouveau.” The sound of the word crept into Robert Langdon’s apartment. Not loud, not soft. But it came.

It came almost as a breeze of fresh air would that was tainted with the new smell of rain, and nearly as imperceptible. It came floating as Robert Langdon tilted his head back and swallowed the last bit of beer remaining in his glass. He set the empty glass down on the small night stand near his bead, scratched his head, pushing his uncombed hair into more of a mess than it had been and picked up the half empty pack of cigarettes lying there.

“Nouveau.” The word came again and this time he heard it and looked down the hall towards the front door.

“Hello?” Langdon called. But silence was his answer.

After a moment and thinking he had not really heard anything he pulled a deep drag from his smoke and leaned over to attach his shoes, slipping them back over his socks from the day before. “No shower today,” he said to himself and his left hand rubbed his beard stubble.

“Nouveau!”

Langdon jumped. “Who the hell is talking? Is someone here?” He called out as he reached into the drawer of the table and deftly extracted a small pistol he kept there for self-defense.