When he arrives, he's always already drunk on the cheap from somewhere else. Then his head begins to bob, and he slurs across the room at the only alien in the place, or the only reader; I'm not sure which bothers him more. I don't react, or I smile, though in bad seconds just now I thought how easily I could pull him down. But he has little to lose. A night in jail would be a night in jail. For the same fight, I could be jailed, fined, tried, deported, lost. All for a thin foreign skin. Instead, I take this moment to write his biography: slump. Now back to reading.