Arnon sat down at the bar of the Mexican restaurant. He was the only customer. Three men with slick black hair combed backward and tanned faces were preparing shift. It was noon. Arnon had walked out onto the street, breathed in the spring air that had broken through, and realized the tension that had gathered in his chest. It wasn't the city, it wasn't the people, but there were certainly some who annoyed him without end.
His tolerance, or his capacity to wash away the bitter taste of the infringement of human bodies out there in the world, Arnon revolted against. Not now, he whispered and took a gulp from his Brooklyn ale. Was it really that simple? The muscles of his body relaxed, he floated away from the mediocracy, the lack of meaning, from the sense of obligation and responsibility as they called it. This awful sense of obligation that those poor people kept struggling against.
It wasn't exactly sure what they gained from it. Arnon tried to reconstruct the conversation. Jokingly, my father would kill me, she replied. The odd reasoning of man while they throw themselves in the abyss, losing their lives, their dreams, their being. And in place of the exaltation of freedom of their youth comes a flat saturation of content, they call happiness.
