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About Guaynabo

Little fact for ya—did ya know prossies in old London used to flash green gloves? Secret signal, innit—sneaky as hell! This one ain’t got no gloves, just a fag hangin from her gob. “Where ya from?” I ask, cos I’m nosy. She shrugs, “Dunno, everywhere.” Fair enough—sounds like me after a bender. Surprised me, tho—thought she’d spin some sob story. Nope, just blank as a slate. “The past is gone,” like the film says—reckon she gets that.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, torrential downpour. I’m sprinting for cover, coffee flying everywhere. I’m soaked, and my mood? Down the drain with the rain. I’m standing under this awning on Calle de la Esperanza, just cursing my luck.

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