I look at the girl’s reflection in the sheet glass window.
Another woman looks at me.
I see her
but still she looks, I am not that different am I?
The woman shouts some exotic coffee to go but it doesn’t matter because everything is in a ‘to go’ cup today.
The Anglo Indian man told me the dishwasher was broken I asked him if it was him, he looked sheepish.
I can’t decide whether to tell the girl who made me my coffee that it was good
because she told me she didn’t get much feedback.
The woman who looked at me before looked at me again as she walked down the road.

It is quiet now but still I don’t want to go but I know I must and I know I have to tell her how good that coffee was.
As I tell her an old boy says
“Horrible the coffee in here is horrible.”
“Mine was alright.” I tell him.
As I walk out he walks out with me with his coffee.
He has spilt something on his jacket but not recently
“Horrible.” He says.
“Well it will sober you up.” I say
“It will be Christmas soon.” He says.
It is January.

Marc Carver Bio:
Sometimes I don’t write for a few days and it feels okay but after a few more it doesn’t feel right at all. So I start to look for things and get out of the house more and there they are. Just waiting for me all along.

Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

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