Angry at the Latvian

I'm sitting in the back parking lot my office, its dark and cold. The streetlights from the nearby theater, long ago closed, glow across my legs and hands. I suck in a drag from my Swisher Grape cigar, just holding the smoke in my mouth, never quite inhaling into my lungs, just savoring the sharp smoky taste off set by the grape tinged after taste as I slowly exhale. My left hand carelessly holding the cigar as I breathe out the smoke and watch it swirl around my body, I let it cover my face in a fine veil. I let my anger at the Latvian release with the smoke and dance toward the sky.
I take a swig of my diet dr pepper and the bubbles tickle my nose. I dont even taste it going down. I focus on my legs, encased in dirty jeans, and my gut resting on the top of my legs. I focus on the heat of the cigar as the flame burns closer and closer to my hand. I focus on my dry brittle ponytailed hair, and my pock marked face. I focus on my body odor and the person walking across the parking lot. I focus on anything but the Latvian and the anger I feel.
The poor Latvian. So angry at the world. Her life failures will always be someone else's fault. She will always be overly dramatic and sharp with her retorts. Nothing in this world means anything to her but herself. She cares very little about anyone. and she has no problem being mean to any and every one.
Its sad really. Pathetic even. And as I write this my anger just kinda fades away. She will never be a purely happy person. And I am happy. And now I know, I have something she will never have. Happiness.