Five boys roll up to the Circle K on two motorbikes. I'd say the oldest is 10. Two of them are wearing dark glasses. I didn't notice whether they were driving or not. It's about 8 o'clock at night and it's raining lightly. Three more show up on another bike. They all gather at the table next to the door. Not one of the eight has a helmet, although they are all wearing hats. Because it's raining. Someone in the little warung next door is playing a guitar that is in dire need of tuning, as is his own heart-filled crooning. The air is filled with the scent of strange spices and the trill and rattle of Balinese slang. I look up from my little story and notice that there are a number of flies swimming in my coffee. Time to go home.