Sitting alone in a forgettable restaurant, just around back was illuminating lights cascading on ill prepared food by unclean hands. The brawny chef gazing through a small window governing our paths as he watches with building anger in his eyes waiting to blow the invisible line I shouldn’t cross. What further nuisance are his children parading around as if nothing has happened?
A dare, a sentence to death or a meager unawares, they continue to show off their smiles. Familiar faces enter and exits, desire for smokes follow. A trembling cold pitcher grazes my left arm as water flows into my cup. Something is floating, but I cannot tell. A horrible atmosphere lingered over my brow as I contained its move in confused display. What all is left of the ill prepared food, is the whole toppings of unclean preparedness.
Why is he watching me…watching me with those sad eyes, those angry eyes, demon eyes?
I reach for my folk to pay homage to his creation, but recoil as it wasn’t the right thing to do.
I asked to myself again. “What shall I do?” An old man, beggar man walked in with a limp and sat across from me in the booth. He watched me too. Not with demon eyes, no, with purpose eyes. What to describe it as… it was more than insanity I tell you. He perched his lips and slithered his tongue. He was hungry. Offer him the plate, but it too wasn’t the right thing to do. What is it you want from me?
He peered and shuddered at my indecisiveness. He picked up his limped hand with the other, pulled the laid fork and plate from in front of me as he eyed me candidly. He dares me to resist. No old man. I will not resist.
“You false prophet” he mumbles. I asked to be excused. He lit his weary face to anger.
“You false prophet” he repeated. Only it was ingrown and tedious. I awoke to new found interest.
“I deny that false accusation, as I am no prophet at all good sir.” I raveled.
“You lie to your shadows, you wake to the moon, and never will you have a dose of happiness.”
I beg his pardon again. What a terse intrusion on my already bad morning. To get to the train station, I would walk 10 blocks in the snow. Dreary rain in the south has no candle stick that burns hotter than a snow walk.
“False prophets don’t eat here. You will suffer immensely if you eat here.” He said with a mouth full.
“Sir, please believe me, your words will not sting. My heart only suffers of your look. A book once explained to me that a false prophet will rot, become eternal in damned.”
“Cleanliness of the openness of everything around you.”
“No sir…” I interrupted… “I’ll never compromise for my own advancement. I speak these words with truth and meaning.”
“No sir!” I demanded.
The young girl is the daughter of the watchful eye behind the counter of the kitchen. He stares. I reach out my hand to touch the young girl’s hand and she vows to keep my hand above hers. No compromise. A heartfelt and truth be told. My words come from randomness of a shadow that proceeds ahead. No doubt and subtle anguish.
“No heart is as pure as gold. Gold is hard, your heart is hard. Cut this silver folk with your heart of diamonds. Pure gold does not exist. You do not exist.” No crumbs are spared.
“Dear, fair and conquered man. I mark your words, but I play dead in your presence. Not one single sentence connected to my brain.”
As more patrons entered into the small diner. They all stare; they stare at me, at us, at my hand over the small girl’s hand. We dance in one accord, but they believe me not. They think of me as his liar, his sheep of more growth in its tree.
“Never confuse this good meal ma’am. I was just hungry.”
He pushed the empty plate on the floor. The little girl’s hand never flinched. Pieces of broken plate cut her ankle. No pain. No suffering. No warrant on such a precious life. She held tight. Where were we going? She held tight. She was frightened. The man behind the counter moved to the left. His eye stayed straight. A second incarnation opened the kitchen door.
There was no room to escape. Now, I felt a shuddered. She was frightened, so frightened.
The beggar man stood up limping worst than before. The consumption of ill prepared food tucked into his source. Less than three steps as the food consumed him whole. No longer a man! A dog, wagging his tail, ears perked.
The little girl slid her hand from under mine, no longer a girl, but a woman. My eyes, my ears, my heart and flesh deceived me. My help is not needed. Her fear was mine, and mine alone. She turned on her heel and stood with the watching man behind the counter. What great awkwardness is this? Tap, tap, tap goes my empty hand on the table. My glass half full. I took a quick sip. The water splatters my chest. What foul mess is this?
The front door blasts open with quickness, an explosive entrance by a woman, an older woman, skin smooth, and hair as black silk. She nodded to the woman and watching men, then turned to me. She glided to my table and sat where the beggar man sat. I had no food to offer. But I had my condolences if she tried the food that consumes you and turn you into a dog. This, this she does not need to know. Curious, I asked who she may be. She said…
“I am your thoughts.”