"If he doesn't change, he's going to end up just like Zoran," the German complained. It's freezing cold, and I'd been standing outside the bar, nodding and grunting, for three and a half cigarettes. Listening to the waitress air out her boy problems had only seemed like a good idea.
I thought for a second as she continued to ramble. Poor Zoran. He was probably shitfaced in a crummy old apartment, working some tin foil into a shiny new hat as his eyes wandered mechanically over a scratched up blackboard. Meanwhile, her boy Tull was five steps away polishing up his thirteenth pint, swaying, playing with a pocket knife. I walked in and took it away.
I thought for a second as she continued to ramble. Poor Zoran. He was probably shitfaced in a crummy old apartment, working some tin foil into a shiny new hat as his eyes wandered mechanically over a scratched up blackboard. Meanwhile, her boy Tull was five steps away polishing up his thirteenth pint, swaying, playing with a pocket knife. I walked in and took it away.
No comments:
Post a Comment