the smuggler’s bible

Romi

The new year sneaks into town under dense cloud cover, cringing through alleys to find an advantageous position before lurching upward to sit leering like a gargoyle above Romi’s favorite brunch spot, where it devours the old year and chews on its bones.

“Is this one uglier?” Romi says to the waiter. “Don’t just shrug at me. I think this one is uglier.”

“Seems the same to me.”

“Its eyes are yellow.”

“I like yellow.”

“Sure, me too,” Romi says, “just not in the eyes of the bad news busy lapping marrow while I try to get buzzed on mimosas.”