Ester, darling. What's wrong with me. I only find comfort in the old souls now, old ladies with ice cream cones and sheepdogs in alcoves. Old mystics, old dearies. The breeze plays with her grays. The sun breeds her smile. She's a flowering conversation she is, a natural good and I'm anxious less when I talk to her. What is that? Even with the coffee, Ester y Califa; the goddess and the sheepdog, sweet darlings. We talk about the early heat and conquistadors and the way everything changes.
It's only fun because i told myself I just wanted to talk to pretty girls again, pretty women with good hearts and by God, they come to me. Ester by all accounts is a beautiful lovely old lady. She's no doubt warmed my heart. I can still feel it past the cortado jitters. She tells me she's seventy-seven before she leaves. Her son's got twenty years on me, but it's only natural. I just had to talk to her. How could I not? It's the simplest thing. Then everything falls into place, and I'll buy a book today: On Booze by F. Scott
"How do you get over someone?"
"You listen to a song that makes you cry until it doesn't make you cry anymore."
