Cafes

I looked at the loudmouth's hands. Smooth white fingers. No ring. Not surprising.

Perhaps you would like to try.

Praise the Lord and pass the stiletto heels?

It's the only civilized place to eat at between Barstow and Nevada.

They glow off the maroon streaks in the hair of a girl with dark brown hair; they glow off the tall barriste with short monkey hair, big ears, acne on his chin, and an annoying silver ring in his lip.

Sometimes, I think, I am the only voice of kindness in their evening. That's sad.

....a bit of thick decaffinated and defatted pleasure to tease the tongue and the lips.

....what am I to do if they start bringing me their poetry for me to read and critique?

I intend to extract one of two types of writer's revenges....

No one said goodbye.

Today she walked up to the window that opens next to the rattan chairs I've used the last few times I came here. Then she stopped when I looked up and sputtered "How's it going?" before she ran back behind the counter and hid on the side beside the cash register.

Before the sun can turn my condo into a broiler, I get in my truck and glide down the hill to Tully's, to spend my afternoon writing to old Sixties and Seventies tunes.

It never seemed to me particularly wise to push oneself to a point near death and then neglecting one's obligations to others.