Mangled Shoes

Untitled Part 52

Deborah, sixteen years old, was depressed.

What had killed her spirit? Tiredness, preserving secrets, and maintaining one's appearance

What could resurrect this from the grave? Integrity, kinship, and elegance

The waitress came back carrying the heated dish.

She is tossing the tray containing the meal plate, cutlery, and a knife and fork. This kind of thing is referred to as "hospitality."

Deborah was starving. She ate the food so fast that it was all gone from her. That was the first hot meal of the day for her. It dawned on her then that she had run out of money for a gratuity.

She asked to see the bill. She asked to see the bill. After paying, I went outside to smoke. She was standing outside near the glass windows in a little area. The windows were designed to provide street views. Deborah could see all of the people and lights in the plaza flickering, flashing, and moving as she lit a cigarette. Abruptly, a vehicle appeared in the driveway. It was a Suzuki Jimny in white. Ideal for off-roading. It appeared like the tires were different sizes. It was evident that God was working through this man.

The man exited his vehicle. 'Jah-man' was what he was. He stands 1.75 cm tall and has dreadlocks that reach his buttocks. Nappy hair is unaffected. He appeared to be in his late forties. He lit a cigarette and took a quick puff. He lit a cigarette and took a quick puff. He extinguished it after giving it only one or two puffs. "Tough life, huh?" Speaking to the Rastafarian man, Deborah asked, "More like a rough life."

Here's the reply: A brief verbal conversation between two smokers is common! Smokers usually have this tendency to blame everything and everything else—life, burdens, anxiety, sadness, etc. Instead of just accepting complete blame or ownership for the deed, Really, what is this? is sluggish sugar. 

 "Sorry, I didn't get your name." Deborah enquired

Most likely, he didn't hear her. He was burdened with so much. A burden is very hefty. All of these difficulties are a part of life. The weight of the packages was far more than we had agreed upon. Few people are here, and even fewer have it easy. 

Taking a deep breath as he stood in the door frame, he eventually walked in. Then he groaned and flashed a toothy smile. For him, walking seems like such a strain. He appears dejected, heavy and burdened. He gave off the impression of being distant. It was sour and severe on his face. Anyhow, what type of Rastafarian is crazy? These folks should be jamming all day, right?

It transpired that he was the café's proprietor. She heard him called Mr. B by one of his staff members. "Mr. B, Mr. B, uh, can I go on my lunch now?" The waiter rushes towards the man.

"Stop, Suz; you have five more minutes to pause before leaving at precisely 14:00. It is currently 13:55," he responds.

He would spend most of his days in this cafe. Bohemians of all stripes, poets, writers, revolutionaries, painters, politicians, chess players, and more were drawn to the cafe. It was their place.

Deborah extinguished her cigarette and entered the cafe.

"Good afternoon, Mr. B, is it?"

The man was now seated behind a desk, occupied with his computer when she asked him. Good afternoon to you, girl.

"Call me Brian if you like," he answered.

You would think the man would speak with a harsh tone given how grumpy he appeared, but he was quite soft-spoken. It seemed as though he had experienced hardship, but each time he thought he was lost, his dungeon shook and his chains fell off.