Sunday night, Vivaldi Cafe

My friend had already gone home, I’m still chatting with the bartenders. One of them is a romanian beauty who is often mistaken for a puerto-rican beauty. She likes to add to the confusion by speaking rapid and fluid spanish with the dishwasher man, she picked it up in spain apparently. framed by hair that is blacker than scandinavian night streaming down as gently as a sunday morning awakening is a slightly curious, a touch concerned but not unhappy face. the two world musicians are annoying, intrusive, pretentious. call me back when the new age is old enough to dream, and please don’t make love to your saxophone in public, it may shine but it’s also completely bent out of shape. the garlic machine is working at a faster pace now, maybe it’s trying to overcome the din with a thick white scent. white noise.

the other barmaid is a tuscon, arizona actress, and she acts the part. romania interrogates, queens delves, arizona muses. arizona can be a perfect tragedian, there is no choice involved. can she die better than she kills? she sure can bite, much better than dracula’s country-woman can. but one count can be enough for countless ages.

i may believe in romania, but i don’t believe in england