cafe romolo

i'm in cafe romolo and i'm full of resentment. i'm trying to finish editing this thing about miami and i feel deeply wronged by the music in here. there's a cover of journey's don't stop believing bashing the back of my skull. it's a man and a woman alternating the lyrics, and the woman is very happy that she can hold a tune. she sings a note and holds it, so loudly and fervently and contentedly that i want to scream. once a small part of me has become resentful, i'm fixated on it.

when i came in i started watching this old man with wolfish fascination, hoping he would go on to make a fool of himself. he received another beer just as i sat down and pulled it closer. he's hideous; his nose dips down to his tight, flat mouth and his cheeks are rigid. however, he drinks much too slowly for me to watch him destroy himself, he has been at this tragic business for many years and does it very precisely. his hand is shaky but deliberate, when he does go for his gullet he takes formidable gulps. he is a geological (at a geological pace? what's the word for that?) drunkard. he has called for another beer. this is sad and boring, he is unhappiness congealed.