Tony Press's short flash about a Mexican café.
Open the curtains, we called, Luis and Ita and Lety and I, from our usual corner, and it was done. The new waiter, whose name we did not yet know, did the deed, and we thanked him as he passed us on his way back to the kitchen.
This Oaxacan morning, the day after Christmas, was growing sunny, and the rays painted thin lines on the walls. I thought of walking up the steps to Cerro Fortin and the viewpoint near the Benito Juarez statue. I hadn't been there in months and it would be a good day to go.
The girl is four years old, or possibly five, with pink tennis shoes and new blue jeans. Silver stars on her pink shirt spell the name "Dora." What awaits her in the years ahead? She carries the promise of a grand life, a world and future impossible to imagine.
And for us, the regular customers, at our regular little tables, with our coffee, or chocolate, and our bread, who knows? What is to become of us, we who once were young.
Who can say? And more, do I really want to know? I decide that I don't and I stand and leave my share of pesos on the tablecloth. Like the Irish poet I will arise and go now.
I will climb the hill alone today. As long as I can walk, I will walk. Tomorrow, if it be granted to me, I will see my friends again at our café.