People shouting at the top of their lungs. A man nonchalantly spits on the ground he stands on. Another puffs away on his cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the disparaging glares tracking him. Listless faces everywhere. A lady throwing scraps into a putrid drain; it lodges between the nooks of an impressively solid dam of aluminum, plastic and styrofoam. The sound of chairs lazily grinding against the cheap limestone floor. A waiter who doesn't say thank you.
As I sip on my iced coffee, I wondered if I'm the only person in this run-down coffee shop who finds the environment repulsive. Probably. Yet there's something about this chaos that's strangely alluring; an angry, red, boiling vibrance that I've grown fond of after 20 years of immersion in this society. Do I hate it? Of course I do. But would I trade it for the calm and controlled atmosphere of an upscale coffee house? Probably not.
An obnoxiously large lady pushes between my chair and the adjacent patron's, her butt cheeks grazing the back of my head. I waited for an apology... and received none. Not that I expected one to begin with. With a smile, I down the rest of my drink. This is home. It sure as hell ain't heaven but fuck, do I love it.
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