Part 2

The next day, the sun comes out bright. I sit in the room and look out at the frozen outside through the broken window. I sit and I don’t study for my ESL test. I wait. I smoke. I wait for something to come. It doesn’t. At lunch, I walk out of the room.

Downstairs, I pass through the empty bar and its stage. There is something pitiful about a bar at daytime. I see the fat landlord.

“Morning, Jack.” My sallow face masks anger. I want to tell him how I hate his room and how he screws all who room here, and how I hate his smiling guts, and I know I can’t, and I smile.

“Have a good day, Jack.”

Under his wild, grey hair, Jack’s large face behind the thick-framed glasses smiles with broad, bright dentures. The brown wool west and white apron envelop his large body. The belly fat enclosed in grey skin slips low, down into big trousers. His fat fingers with Freemason’s ring work on the steel surface behind the thick glass. I watch those fingers cover thick hunks of grilled hamburger with lettuce, tomato slices and pickles, and the meat is fresh, and the meat smells good, and white bun comes smooth on top. White sign with red letters behind the glass reads “Hamburgers $6.99.” I walk into the freezing wind and my lighter feeds me a cigarette. I walk for hours. I press my arms against my chest. I hold the coat tight, toque low, sunglasses deep. I search for a place to breathe.

I walk east. Finding nothing, I sit in the Bagel Corner. The sun comes in and heats up the shop. On the table, napkins and bagel crumbs cast dark shadows in the bright light. I slowly swallow my coffee. I stare at Maria, the blonde in blue sweater with appeal of innocence behind the counter. A twig-tall man in stonewashed jeans too short for his frame, white socks, and white sweater and red face reads the paper with one knee crossed high across the other. His chair swings back and forth. His meticulous companion with grey, frizzy hair picks the dirt from her raggedy fur coat. Teenagers huddle in the corner and whisper secrets. A Black girl in a tight, maroon tracksuit and hair tied in a messy bun walks to the counter and inspects the food behind the glass.

“Can I have a bacon bagel?” she asks. “I love bacon – lots of bacon.” Maria looks at the money in girl’s hand. She nods and a little golden cross dangles out of her blue sweater as she bends forward to reach the bacon and cheese. The girl squeezes the bill. She counts on her fingers. I size up her young body, her dark skin, deep, black eyes, her thick lips glistening in bright light. My eyes hurt.

“Give me some more bacon. And a bigger egg! Come on, girl!” she shouts.

She pays and collects the change. I push sun-dried crumbs on the plate into the cushion of my finger.

Minutes pass.