Meat Market at the Cyprus Tavern

I am in the Cyprus Tavern. It is crowded. A meat market. I sit with a friend on the floor, watching a song on YouTube on my iPad, about saving the environment. Three women join us. One is quiet, and I find her intriguingly attractive, the second us ginger, loud, and has something not quite right about her. The ginger flirts with me. I’m flattered but it drives away the quieter one.

Eventually ginger leaves to flirt with someone else. I am left with the last of the three, a tall Spanish woman. We talk. She works in a Union Mediation building. I ask what they do there. She replies that they mostly organise mariachi bands to march about singing union songs. I laugh as I tell her that’s what I thought they did. She has a nosebleed, and so do I.

It is early evening or morning. I am still in the Cyprus Tavern. It is empty. The back door is open. I sit and chat with Isley. We watch cartoons and play video games.

A posh dinner. Politicians order from the menu, mispronouncing words. A black cat ambles past.



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