there's a bar next to where i'm staying. early in the morning, i can hear the espresso machine start whirring, the tink and clanks of steel against glass, hard heeled footsteps, muffled italian. sometimes i make my way over and stand at the counter with men dressed in long dark coats, giving me sideway, if not blatant, glances at my sleep-marked face. i can never drink those fucking little cups of espresso as slowly as they do. embarrassingly quick, foreign. when i feel bold, i ask for another one. if not, i just slip a couple of coins onto the counter, give a nod to the others at the counter, or perhaps just to the counter, and wander off.