Late.

So I'm waiting, right...I'm sitting in this coffee shop on Avenida 16th de Septembre watching my cold coffee swirl with the thin skin of curdled cream float on top. My cigarette is burned down to a nub, but I'm waiting. And I hate waiting. The clock up on the wall crawls like the clock in the Machinery of Metropolis and just as painful. This old fart, winkled and the color of a brown paper bag sits starin' and a-starin' and I glare at him but he won't stop. What? He think I'm queer or sumpthin'? So I gulp the coffee and ask the obese and overworked underpaid masera fer another cup and she look at me like I just fuck her virgin daughter and slosh haffa cup full. (Make mental note to slam down two pasetas and dramatically storm out. Cunt.)

Sigh. Stare out the big window and the world is cold and the wind is blowin' dust and the Mexican folk they walk briskly by huddled in their trappings to avoid the cold, but it's cold in here too and I sip my coffee and that shit is hot. I make a little yelp and the old coot giggles. Wyoncha go watch the toilet flush, Gramps? So, I'm waitin' and I got one Lucky Strike left and I got like twenty two pesos and he's late. They are always late. Goddamn, like there are two time zones, American and Mexican and Mexican is always outta whack.

Two Mexi-fags enter and coyly scope out the gringo before sitting at the booth but I just watch the cockroach skitter across the diner bar. I flick it with my finger when it comes to close and catapults it into an eclair that some fat bitch rich and nasty eats later. Where the fuck is he? I can hear the ticking of the clock over the fucking chachacha music. I straighten the wrinkle in my black chinos and gaze over and watch two hoggish couple slurp and kiss each other inna booth. Revolting. Wonder what would happen if me an my boy started frenchin right here in the middle of the cafe? One of the Mexi-fags catches my eye contact and smiles. Flames and knives shoot outta mine in return.

Ding! The door...but no, just some shoe shine boy asks the gringo inna shop fulla customers but asks the gringo only if he wants his shoes shined. Nope. I says. Kinda cute. I give the kid ten pesos and tell him go buy him some marijuana--he laughs--then I follow with 'and come back inna few years to make some real money.' And watch the cutey leave the cafe.

Finally, with a blast of cold air the glass door swings open and in all his hottness Ricardo comes in and he looks tall and fine in black leather coat, black sweater, black slacks and boots. "I hope you weren't waiting long, mijo?" He asks and smiles that smile that melts hearts.

"No, not long." I return. "I was just finishing a cigarette. Ready to go to the movies?"

"Let's go." And we both hit the cold pavement. I walk next to him, laughing and thinking what a beautiful night.