Schopenhauer’s Cafe Table

The guard here cannot be let slip too far, no way. Held firm. This poor duffer now when he was told acquiesced immediately, seating himself three chairs over and angling his shoulder in order to demonstrate his sincerity. Chewing away. Quietly, thank all the powers. Looked like two prata he had loaded on his plate. Brunch. Six months of watching the close interaction with Muttalib inevitably had him wondering, though once he had made mention of Mu’s Jag. White guys would understandably have more to say to a Jag owner. One does one’s best. Last weekend the guy’s daughter when she showed was given the remainder of the unsweetened Indian yoghurt. Not especially appealing to the lass no more than dad, though in this case the young fattie polished the thing off promptly. Now the drawbridge needed to remain raised while the man sat on. Old Mr Malayu when he sidled over was given the same short shrift, a finger like Michelangelo’s God pointing at the page, which caused the first to chuckle. Widowed recently the fella, lonely and lost; the other was an incorrigible old rogue in his mid-seventies who shook off his wife back home at every opportunity and trawled the market over the road for appealing 2 hour Batam girls…. Wordlessly getting himself off finally, sucking his teeth for farewell just before swinging away. Taking his glass and plate what was more. Some of these customers have benefited from the notable example of the mat salleh here in their midst. In Primary School a boy would make a fist and brush his chest polishing his self-awarded medal. I’m too good! Schopenhauer famously kept a sign before him at his café table offering so many kroner for something he could be given that he hadn’t previously heard. (Not meaning to claim equivalence of course. God forbid! Though there might be a certain shared temper of mind.)