THE SLEEPWALKER BANQUET

CAFÉ LATTE

It is no use to man lament the times in which he lives.

The only good thing you can do is try to improve.

Thomas Carlyle

After ordering the long café latte latte with cinnamon and double sugar cube like everyday, shuffled to his table and when he was about to take place, two gothic teenagers slipped between the hole and left him without his favorite seat, on the window by watching the people go by.

He threw an overview of the coffeeshop to see where it could sit, and then, on the wall, between all the photos of famous people who had ever been in the coffeeshop, one of them caught his eye. He quickened his pace, heading for the picture, squinting to see if he could well see it more clearly. 

<<I could only see that red hair ...>>

Was she?

When missing just a few steps to finally check, an old drunken bum filled with hair dreadlocks danced the absurd music thread in the middle of the coffeeshop and bumped into him. His plague of alcohol and dirt caused a slight morning sickness.

- Hey! Old man, walk carefully ... I think you should go to rest,  you have a little more drunk ... - he said, diverting his gaze to the picture.

Finally got rid of the old, and when he reached the wall, he could prove it. It was her. Yes, certainly. But not wearing piercings or casual clothes. It was arranged with an Italian bun, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a suit. She was holding a piece of sushi with wooden sticks while smiling at the camera. He could read a sign beneath, with her name.

- Grettel ... H ... e ... r ... Zog ... - he read aloud difficulty Damn, <<I better get the point.>>

- It was one of those girls ... you know ... - said a voice right behind him.

He turned. Behind him was the coffeeshop owner. Leo called him, but no one knew his real name. He knew by sight.

- One of those girls asked.

- Yeah, you know, a professional ... is dedicated to art ... the art of sex, as it were.

- Porn Actress? - asked again.

- Yes, and best. Well ... - cough - so I'm told.

- Why did you say she was? Has he retired - he insisted.

- Oh no, poor ... she died about a year ago. Overdose. You know, this world ... not bring anything good ... Leo said as he wiped the nearest table.

He reaches in his pocket, looking for the notebook to write her name. And then he realized that he had nothing in his pocket. Nothing. No wallet, no phone, no keys, no book. And as a result, either the clearance by the rave he had collected and had saved the notebook.

-¡¡¡Fucking vagabond thief !!! - He cried when he realized what had happened.

He went to look for him, and ran down the street. But then he realized he could run until dawn, it would be the same. He would not find him.

He returned to the bar and wrote the name of the girl on a napkin. He asked for a phone to call the office. He explained that he had been robbed and that would go to the police station and most likely will not show up there all morning long.

He walked the city on foot, until finally find the station. There, a prostitute who claimed to be called Amor shouted and complained about his/her unjust detention. He was surprised that she/he was there so early.

- I do not do anything illegal, my dear! You do not understand why you bring me here, I just like walking on the neighborhood dressed like this... I do not sell anything to anyone ...

On the other side, away from the scene of the woman, the police took note of his complaint started asking reluctantly.

- And you say that a tramp who faded into nothingness, drunk to barely hold ... has stolen everything. Wallet, mobile, keys ...

- Yes sir, he replied firmly.

The police frisked to Amor, found something tucked inside her bra padding.

- Let me guess, Amor ... ketamine, right? - He said with a bored tone of sarcasm.

- No, idiot. Are the remains of my face powder. Perhaps as men you have the right to ignore the female secrets? This is a shame! ... no way of being a woman and being respected...?

After listening and smile involuntarily to the whore, he returned to land on its own complaint where the agent Gomez wrote slowly the data he was describing to him on a computer from the times of Nirvana.

- Well, I think we're all, Mr. Vega. If you want to give the phone a locksmith you know, to help you get into your home. Do not forget to cancel credit cards.

- Yeah, right, I had not thought about it...