"You look a bit ragged today, Frank." This was where the script, at last, left off, and they were allowed to improvise. Pete counted change. Francisco counted on his first sip of coffee, which eked into him like humidity.
"You know, you’re the only person I let call me ‘Frank.’"
â€œShouldâ€¦Iâ€¦consider myself lucky then?â€ Pete let the lilt grow in his words as he counted the mess of bills and coins Francisco handed him.
The rain stopped. Which surprised, irked, and depressed Francisco; in that order. He had intended to write another profound poem addressing themes of unending rain on cold city streets and the overall loneliness of his soul that would, like all of his poems, ultimately be ignored by any publication that he sent them to which he knew would magnify his depression deliciously. Francisco had a impressive collection of rejection letters from many distinguished editors. He planned to use each of these in some vindictive way against these distinguished editors once he had finally been recognized as a poet of fathomless skill and a human being of unheard of beauty. Whenever that happened.