A Good Girl

I’m walking home after the bars have closed on Saturday night.

A little drunk, a little melancholy. That’s how I roll lately.

All of Barcelona is a little drunk and a little melancholy these days. The crisis. The streets of the Raval neighborhood, always full of party-goers a few years ago, are empty except for the Pakistani illegal beer vendors and the odd African man with a shopping cart full of metal.

I hit Ronda Sant Antoni and walk past a gauntlet of Pakistani men with six-packs of Estrella beer in their hands.

I seem to have no energy left for anything tonight, not even an extra sentence. And though the beer-sellers are completely non-invasive and polite, I am already dreading the walk past them: their predictable approach, holding the beers up to my face, and my inevitable rejection.

I am so tired. So tired of everything tonight.

“Cerveza?” one of them say as I walk past. The others, as if sensing my negative energy, don’t even bother.

“Cerveza?” says another one.

“No thank you,” I say, without breaking my stride.

“Good girl,” I hear him say softly as I walk away.