I lay in my room. Outside seagulls squawk, dogs bark. My roommate is in the living room killing zombies online. Enough of this shit, I shower and dress and walk down to the cafe to shoot the shit with anyone who will lend a friendly ear.
Mostly on account that I wanted to smooth talk this one guy who I recently met named Jose Luis. He is attending medical classes and makes the occasional trip to the beach to watch the sunset. The first time we chatted and I thumbed through his text books, I made a quip about Freud and he followed it by a comment about artists having oral fixations all the while giving me that look. You know...that look.
So, as I was saying, I went to the beach to talk with him yet instead wound up sitting in front of the beer/pizza joint called Horno 320 and drinking beers with expat writer Robert Smallwood. Me being without funds, it was nice of him. We sat and chatted of writing and writers. All the while blowing my rendezvous with Jose Luis. A ver...
Eventually, Robert invited me to the rooftop balcony to his house on the beach to smoke weed and sip martinis. Though that 52 year old was sloshed to gills stumbling over words and sometimes his own feet, the old man made sense - he urged me to continue writing (I had confessed that I was thinking of throwing in the towel) and I should exploit my gift. Funny, never saw it as a gift - more as a curse, but I digress.
As the sun sank as a flaming ball over the silver horizon, we returned to the pizzaria and sat out on the tables on the sidewalk and joked and laughed - mostly Robert making off-kilter sexual innuendo at two girls who sat across from us - it was actually a relaxing time that I needed after the emotional rollercoaster ride of the previous week.
And as for Jose Luis - the poor boy is in my sights and I think it is high time to begin the hunt...
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