What I missed, every day, yearned for, actually, was a British-style pork sausage. I dreamt of them. At least I think it was sausages I saw in my dreams.
The service was conducted, of course, by a large angel with glitter in her hair.
At the launderette, an elderly man took off his trousers, put them into the dryer without washing them. He sat on a chair and offered me a cigarette.
She lies on a rug with Alberto, they are playful with each other, then nap, their bodies touching, like incestuous twins.
We’re drunk and happy, and howl into the night, like wolves in the forest.
He says I should come back to the table and talk to him more, and blows me a kiss. I wink at him, like a playboy.
He laughs. “I wish! I wish you’d fuck me.” He howls this into the night. He doesn’t care who hears. “Fuck you all!”