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I walk into a smoke-filled bar spilling with Don Julio and in dire need of a spruce up. Extortionate prices have been slapped onto beers that taste too thin, too musty, and remind me of my late uncle’s apartment --- but I buy one anyways and imagine sipping on a vintage wine instead. Tonight, I turn my back against a poorly lit sign that reads ‘Tapa Bar’ and stalk a couple caught up in a debate so intense, neither notice my attempt to read their lips. A quarter ‘till eleven, and I still hear muffled voices but none that beguile me too much. As I tip the bartender to end an uneventful Saturday night, a woman leaves her husband with a stack of papers and cries:

No vale la pena, mi amor!

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