It was a local, traditional coffee shop on the side of a ruined street. It was swarming with loafers. They were trying to escape from their dilapidated homes that gave them a sense of shortness of breath and feeling of suffocation. In the hot month of Tammuz, he claimed his place by sitting at a worn-out wooden table. This was his preferred location, as he liked to keep out of sight of the prying eyes.
He idly yawned. Feeling something lodged between his teeth, he took a matchstick, jabbed it between his uneven teeth, and swallowed what was stuck between them. His glassy eyes prowled over the faces of the crowd. Every once in a while, he used his hands to drive away the flock of blue flies that raided the food residue. His mawkish gaze was fixed upon a little girl. She was curled up in the corner, licking her nosebleed. Her hungry looks hovered around the leftovers.
Smacking his lips in a moment of ecstasy, he beckoned to her. Slowly, she crawled toward him. While she was trying to slip a morsel of bread between her teeth, she flinched. She felt the stings of the scorpions of his hand, when it crept intoonto her chest, fondling. Terrified, the little girl sprang up. She spat the flies, and what was left of the food, onto his face.