Call To Prepare For

I’m not sure I have anything to say this evening.  I’m at a restaurant again.  This is the time I sanctify, as protected, to write.  And I have written while sitting here more than a few times.  Down below the street, sitting by myself at a four-person table. I’ve three dishes I’ve never eaten before, in front of me.  I’ll photograph them for you.  They’ve just brought out a dish of laziji that could feed a village. 

I have a guy behind me smoking a cigarette.  I don’t usually care but the air conditioner draw must be right above my head and it is sucking his exhale right up over my meal and beneath my nose.  I care.  The boss about whom I’ve written many times is sitting there, talking to two other people.  She’s smoking.   So is the guys she’s talking to. Isn’t it illegal to smoke in restaurants?  Is that only in the capital?

Normally, sitting here, I have the evening before me to rest into or work beyond at my discretion.  Tonight, there is a call to prepare for. 

Walking back on the dark, north side of Beijing Road, I pass small, stores that are also living rooms.  An older guy is getting a foot massage.  A store has a thin dummy with purple hair and a purple skirt and nothing else, staring out at the road.  Another store small room seems to stock plumbing supplies.  Everyone is half in, half out of their dwellings on this warm night.

Two young ladies appear out from a dark street and into the light.  They are short, both wearing impossible heels and they scamper in front of me and wave down a cab.  In a minute they are gone.  Tonight, there is a call to prepare for.