31/07/2026 Friday Terce. Me. Hungover in a cafe. Arms crossed, spine compressed by slouch, a worn-down C-shape. Dull, empty stare fixed firmly on the wall. Pale with lack of sleep. Here we set our scene.

The café promised some refuge from the weary heat but in this city, even the gleaming, modern franchised storefronts are unendowed with air conditioning. Two men with suitcases sit asleep in their chairs at the next table. The first, a 30-something with a potbelly and a grey backpack, slumped over against the wall almost immediately upon sitting down, head laying to rest on a single propped-up arm. The second, trim, with a short, kempt beard and athletic shorts, valiantly fought back slumber a while longer. I watched him as the periods of hanging head and closing eyes waxed closer and closer together, bleeding over each other into a single sleep, more and more uninterrupted by the rousing starts in which he would take inventory of their bags and size up the people around them for risk of thievery. It’s hot out today, and in this closed-in back room of a chain cafe, the air is stagnant and does not move, rendering somewhat tropical the calm nondescript paintings of plants that hang around the room. “Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard” plays softly over the speakers.

A large black fly darts haltingly across luxurious-golden pools of light that shimmer lazily atop the glassy-brown surface of the wooden chair across from me. The frenetic forward motion of the revelrous night had, at some point, to roll to its final stop, and my headache is worse in the stasis and silence of the hot summer morning. Still the air sits motionless. It is a blanket, smothering my tired body under its thickness and weight. Paul Simon sings softly over the speakers. “I’m on my way, but I don’t know where I’m goin…”

-A