Drinking as the sun sets in Porto
The seagulls fly overhead as the ladies put out their cigarettes in the ashtray. Sangria is cheap here, only two euros per glass. Most tables on the patio have two or three people talking eagerly to each other. At one table, a lady sits alone and picks at her fingernails.
There is a constant flow of people walking out of the door to the bar with full glasses in their hands. The hum of conversation is incessant, but any one conversation is incomprehensible, perhaps because it's all in Portuguese, which I don't understand anyway.
One man with a leg crossed over the other pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and fumbles with his fingers to pull one out. He puts it in his mouth, cups his hands around the end, lights it, sucks in, and blows a cloud. Then pulls it out of his mouth and proceeds to scroll on his phone, the cigarette between his two fingers, emitting smoke slowly from the burning end.
People stand up from their tables and go—perhaps to dinner, perhaps to drink more somewhere else, perhaps to their homes to make love.
A lady comes out of the door with two beers and sits down with the other lady who was picking at her fingernails earlier. They clink their glasses together, each take a drink, and then start to talk with their elbows on the table looking at each other.
Music plays from inside the bar. It is almost impossible to believe this will ever end, impossible to think that the energy will dissipate and eventually be totally gone. But surely, as at the end of all nights, the umbrellas will be drawn down, the chairs will be folded, the tables will be be carried inside, and the patio will be empty.
All through the dark night. And all through the day. Until the sun is almost setting again. And then the tables will be brought back out again and the chairs will be unfolded. The umbrellas will be extended and the first patrons will arrive to order their drinks. And then many more will come and yet again everyone will be talking and drinking.