Nostagia

You were unhappy. Your body had problems. You would stop walking to massage your feet. This was worse when you were carrying socks full of coins to buy a sandwich and coffee. But you could always talk to the homeless. They were open and friendly. The sun would rocket down through the western sky like a stone of fire and leave the city cold. The café had a parquet floor and strange coffee - muddy, approaching sour. Men and women at tables writing, noise music, zines, outbursts of sound from the punk kids drinking cups of water and everyone lightheaded with so much longing. Your upstairs neighbor played "Shoot Out the Lights" loudly. You became friends. He was more beautiful than you and the women you met preferred him. Another neighbor was an old German immigrant, named Horst, who left his keys in the door. This was more convenient. The tree outside the lead paned windows flowered white and pale yellow in the spring. The couple who owned the turreted building watched business channels on cable TV, tracking their investments. You didn't have any skill or any persistent interest in money, so you vacillated between feeling superior and inferior to the landlords, Bob and Nancy.