Days and Nights in Buenos Aires Later, back home, Kent thought of that last dawn . . . By Kendric W. Taylor
For William Kent, the restaurants in central Buenos Aires were someplace to keep the darkness out. He ate alone nearly every night, late, amid the crisp white tablecloths and slowly twirling ceiling fans. Even though he could understand little of the conversations around him, the talk itself was enough; that and the color and the movement. Along with the solid fare and glow of the wine, it cast a circle of warmth that cold despair could not readily penetrate, unless he invited it in. He was working in this fabled city to escape events at home, not an uncommon theme in Kent’s jumbled story: only this chapter was tall, thick brown hair to her waist, foul-mouthed and funny. And as it turned out – no surprise -- the laugh was on him. As much as Kent could stretch the workday, at some point loomed the inevitable return to the small commercial hotel and his room with its view of the airshaft. Long after the last newsletter article had been written and everyone had gone home, it was time to shut off the lights and leave, chancing the antique lift down to the street. That’s when he usually headed for a Palacio Papafritas on Avenida Florida, deep and dark, not a palace, only a modest respite for traveling salesmen, lonely clerks and tired pensioners. It was inexpensive and never crowded, and the waiters, after a few evenings, seemed to view him as a regulár. He would sit quietly, reading the Englishlanguage edition of Time, purchased at the kiosk outside, or a paperback. The staff was tolerant of his limited language skills, and his curious Yankee
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