h1

check-out is in five

June 29, 2011

My breakfast looks like a black puddng that came through the wash, but my left hand is holding a small cup of unremarkable darjeeling. Four of us sit at a smalll round table just of Legian plying the web, ignoring each other. This is who we are.
We’ve fooled ourselves into thinking we deserve a treat this morning, so a pretty young girl in an immaculate white shirt removes and replaces trays with a grace that makes her almost invisible; how professional. The Sun makes a late appearance, to which we all groan.
An older woman who is dressed as her colleague may have once been as attractive but now she moves about the terrace placing offerings on all the significant bits of carved stone, sitting incense underneath. The sincerity with which they take religion touches me, like charity observed. The offerings cover the ground, especially in the thinner alleys where they collect in filthy sacred drifts of trampled flowers, woven leaves and biscuits. Ancestors fucking love biscuits.

Balinese men hawking through fake Australian accents can’t come inside our coffee garden, and my brain is swollen with comfort. The air smells like incense, like refuse.

Apprently, the fry was also very good.

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