He was always eating small sugar cookies with a coffee at the cafe on Ave. Juarez at odd hours of the night. And he always seemed tired as hell — with smeared war paint for dark circles and a voice which sounded like a perpetual yawn when he placed his order.
At least once a week, he would be there, flipping through a black notebook in the corner of the cafe, his eyelids bobbing up and down sleepily. I thought sometimes about starting up a conversation with him, romanticizing the idea of two regulars developing a friendship, but it wasn’t as though Hopper had painted us into Nighthawks or anything.
Besides, the only thing I would have had to say to him would be to ask why he didn’t just go home and go to sleep.