Butterflies.

A man wears a black hat every morning to work, despises the smell around him and carries a beat up bag with some left overs from last night. Meat and veggies. Big Surprise.

People drive like convinced assholes and the heat tears apart, yet again, the old ladies maneuvering their lives on the cracks of the sidewalks. The city happens and the black smoke from all the cars take over the scenery and the drivers go in the wrong direction like eating a piece of pie. Mangú pie that is.

The man that wears the hat rapidly enjoys a moment with his cup of joe, the wind says weird things and drives away the butterflies, the lonely butterflies that will forever wonder that same thing. Why am I here? Where are the colors I used to love?

People take two parking spaces and the food is always cold, the Mayimbe sings a fine tune form the 80's and all the laptops in the office have issues; the perfect landing of a mosquito happens in front of me while I digest the abuse that is this month's electric bill.

The black hat lays on the couch, some cheap dark glasses spend the day next to some expensive headphones and a tiny plastic Darth Vader watches over everything. Good thing that guy doesn't talk.

The afternoon comes upon this building and sneaks into the office, waits for us on top of our small fridge filled with rum, ham and some dirty tupperwares. We joke, we smile and we argue about how things have gotten so bad and ridiculous.

The car awaits for the man in the black hat, loyal and quiet, ready to take on the mean streets of this city, he waits for that quick moment when his driver gets inside and takes a deep breath before heading home, a deep breath that crumbles everything inside for a few seconds.

The car tries to take him for a drive, maybe down to the malecón for some daydreaming, but fails everyday. There's always something to do. Always some work to take care of. Always some event.

Gas is way to expensive for a ride anyway. Who has that kind of money!?