Simeón

He spoke of himself in the third person, chest swollen like a winter pigeon, declaiming with gravitas the small, sad facts of his life. Simeón--- a Jew with white gloves in the war; the fine white gloves he stretched over rough hands, folding the paper (he couldn't read) in four and setting out for the once grand avenue cafes. He marched through Syntagma in Neronian splendor past crowded tables with nothing to serve but the view, a white-gloved hand turned from a dirty shirtcuff, the general's salute. There were catcalls, howls and clapping as he paraded his last act in one act cafés and walked on, his bubble eyes locked on some distant tree, jaws fixed tight, the paper clutched under his free arm like a stranded bird.

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