An open cafe in a bright, family-friendly mall isn’t where you’d expect to be challenged to a fist fight. This dude is drunk in the middle of the day, looking for trouble.
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I sat on the bed and began to work on my laptop, ignoring him, so he rolled over on his back and flashed me the undercarriage, then started with the tongue.
Lacking sleep, bag left on the plane, dose of the scutters, bank cards not working, couldn’t find our hotel, drove the rental car off a ledge in a dark alley, had to get a couple of gruff looking local dudes to bail us out after midnight.
“Yeah, I was there for two weeks, got shipped out because they put a bullet in me, went in this side” – he points to his waist – “and out the other. Lucky to be alive.”
A big, unshaven Spanish man is asking me to show him the other thing I mentioned. I hesitate for a second, then drop my shorts and underwear, turn around and bend over.
Leaving Lisbon, in traffic on a bus to the airport, and a little girl in the backseat of a car next to us turns and smiles and waves. And we smile and wave back. And then she’s gone. And that’s most likely the only time our paths will ever cross, the only moment we’ll ever share in our long lives on this small rock in a vast universe. It was nice.