Living at the Waldorf Hotel can be a dangerous experience.
I’m not referring to the hipster onslaughts or the shady characters in the
parking lot. I’m not talking about being accosted with inane conversation by barely 20
somethings hopped up on Mojitos. Nor the threat of breakbeats putting me at
risk of suddenly busting a potentially dangerous move. I speak of a lethal
combination served with careless abandon in the restaurant below me. The late
night flan and espresso combo.
Seductive.
Delicious.
Together they call to me in irresistible siren songs through
the floor. Beckoning me to venture down the stairs and partake in their
contrasting yet enticing complimentary flavors. The warm creamy flan drizzled in dolce
leche leaving a subtle sweetness on my tongue only to have that lightness
transformed into something deeper. Something darker with a simple sip of coffee.
Intoxicated and entranced, I am defenseless against its lure.
The immediate effect is one of euphoria, an electric exhilaration,
a desire to express myself creatively, and a feeling of rapturous
invincibility. Inevitably, an hour later, those ecstatic sensations are
followed by an equally radical crash that sends me crawling shamefully into bed.
Then, in the morning, there is the unavoidable Flanover.
Even before my eyes are open I feel the throbbing in my temporal lobe. The
morning sun coming in the window burns my parched tongue that must’ve been
hanging flaccidly out of my mouth while I lay unconcious. Dehydrated and delirious I
lurch towards the bathroom and fall into the shower letting the water bring me
into semi-consciousness. I brush my teeth staring at myself remorsefully in the
mirror. My eyes appear as two red orbs sunken deep into my skull.
Espresso. Flan. Each of these individually pose potential
risks. Together they can destroy a man.
This is my shame.
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