Old women with girlishly yellow hair and fierce lipstick, or zinc noses, age-spotted, wattling underarms. Old men too, with khaki cargo shorts, gronky waterproof watches that display thirty things in addition to the time.
SlowTwo Mexican men lift a rust-speckled corrugated gate up over their shoulders and it rumbles on its runners into the ceiling of a stall and one of the men makes a fist and swivels his shoulder touching it tenderly. The other man moves a revolving display rack of sharks’ teeth onto the sidewalk. The upper and lower jaws, still joined, are wide open. All those rows of milk white teeth pointing inward.
Adults at Play
There are a few flies buzzing around our sugar dish and the crumbs from our croissants.
Rotting, I say. Conrad Black is rotting merrily away. The men set a display of wooden masks in the shade of the awning. There is a small red light bulb behind one of the elaborately carved masks. The mouth of the god hangs open, thick lipped and mute, a weak red light pouring out of it and out of the hollow eye sockets.
The music changes in the café. Neil Young is singing: How does it feel to be alone?