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.
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