It’s best here in the early mornings on an overcast autumn day. Sitting on the plush orange sofa, in the semi-light. Warmed by Turkish tea, smoking rolled cigarettes. There’s only three of us here, and the barmaid clattering dishes in the back. An old French song tiptoes about the room. It’s best here when outside the weather’s grim. When there’s just a few yellow leaves left trembling on the trees. Sitting in this dim, uncertain light. Sitting under a sign that says Beware of Pickpockets. Smoke curling from my ashtray. Mumbling as I write this. It’s best here before the crowd comes, when it’s gloomy and cold outside, the windowpanes speckled with raindrops. A jar of sugar and a vase of flowers on every coffee table. And the barmaid who smiles every time I order a tea.
She put herself out of the job
because she was not good at conversing
with all the other office girls,
discussing the minutia of each of their love lives
over and over again,
so she did her work and soon found that there was
no more work to do, so that she started doing the work
of the others, which made them uncomfortable;
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