I push the hot water button on the water dispenser to fill my coffee cup and turn to greet someone hobbling along on his crutches. The boiling water overflows and runs down my hand. I do a small dance of pain, mutter a curse and walk to where I usually sit in the coffee lounge, slopping coffee as I go.
“Good morning, Leon!” says someone as I pass.
“Morning,” I growl, watching a drop of coffee narrowly miss my shoe.
“Guten morgen, Leon!”
“Morgen.” I don’t look but it sounds like Fritz, the nice guy from the third floor.
“Buenas Dias, Leon,” says Paco who always sits in the window seat.
“Hola!” I say, pleased at my knowledge of Spanish as it is spoken in Beunos Aires.
I’m halfway to my usual seat and rapidly running out of languages.
“Bon jour, Ami!” says Marcel, raising his cup as I draw…
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