what I see

Looking out the bar window I watch the homeless man on the sidewalk talking up the doorman. Trying to make out the toothless, gummy words mouthed from the other side of the glass, I give up realizing it was no longer a simple conversation I could follow.

My friends were off doing their own thing at the moment, so I turn around and watch the birthday girl dance with her father to the mariachi band. Visible from the open back dress is a round tattoo about the size of a serving plate. You really can't go up to a girl and closely inspect the elaborate design without them noticing of course, and my wanting to trace the lines with my fingertips was out of the question.

This strange, drunk impulse amuses me.

This night could happen on any downtown night in some other city, but after eight years living in Southern California it finally feels like home to me.

This weekend I'll be at my first home sleeping in my first room and I will miss Los Angeles.

This is at once weird and perfectly okay.


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