Fictive short - 24 Nov 2010.
His hands are sweaty, his back is arched, his eyes are filled with rage - the internal kind, the repentive, dirty, rotting kind - and he yells at his client "Fucking disgusting motherfucker!" Wiping his mouth, with repudiance, no, with teary disgust at the man he must have just passed moments with in one of the many cars that pull up to him every night.
From where I´m standing I can see him raging at the trees, the curb, the closed newspaperstand. He keeps wiping his mouth, raising his hands, yelling at the others that always stand there with him. Hiding his sad loneliness behind an aggressive rage. I know he´ll come to me for consolation in about a minute or two. After he´s plunged his fist in the dirt he´ll come here, hands in his pockets, nervously looking side to side but strung on getting here for some hugs and kisses. Shiny, colorful ones marked x and o - just like his eyes - one closed and the other open."
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