He Drew Dancers on the Tablecloths
My friend Hasard has one leg shorter than the other. He’s an artist — or so he says. With the paintings and drawings he does I suppose he must be, although I’ve never liked them from the start.
We’d often sit and talk.
“You shouldn’t drink so much,” I’d tell him, “your tiny body cannot handle it.”
“We’ll see,” he would reply, not even looking up, downing more absinth and scribbling pictures on the table cloth until the waiters…