As I stumble home drunk, I know that somewhere, she's doing her best to blot me from her memory. Perhaps watching myself take each step-- giggling at the silliness of it all-- illuminates my ego or validates my self-preoccupation, but I think that, even in this state, I'm much preferable to any fantasy she can dream up. I stop and look forward. I see two young, sober guys between me and the café in the distance, walking toward me. I'm feeling sick to my stomach. I swing around to see a la subasta stand. I grab the rusty handle and pull, the door opens with a loud squeak. It's a mess inside. Being that it was now a repository for more than just Spanish want-ads, I feel no guilt as I stick my head in and vomit. I return to the path in front of me to see the guys standing with smiles on their faces. For them, asking me if I am okay is just a preamble to "you got any change" or "well, you got a square?"
Well, I'm not okay, I only carry plastic, and smoking is bad for you, I say.
Know how that feels
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