Graham Masterton

It was 9:03 on the night of Thursday, August 11, 1988. Joe stood up with his cigarette dangling between his lips and carried his plate to the dishwasher. “I wish you’d quit,” Nina chided him, taking out the cigarette and kissing him. “Two a day, is that smoking?” he appealed. “Two too many. I want you to live for ever.” There were marginally fewer than eight minutes left to go. Joe said, “I’ll try to cut down to one, okay? But you’ll have to give me time to decide which one. I need the morning one to get me going and the evening one to calm me down.” “Oh, decisions, decisions,” Nina teased him.