"I saw it! It's little pink legs and it's little black eyes." She's talking about shrimp...the live ones...in the tank... and she's cringing. Like hell, she's cringing. This sushi joint serves live shrimp...a daily special etched in blue on their dry-erase board.
Poor little things. Snatched from its watery box, a scaled-to-fit ship anchored in the pebbles, a mermaid, a sunken treasure trunk, a couple of lobsters clawing at the glass, and the shrimp...just bobbing in the tide-less tank.
Little black eyes... soulless little insects. Except, they must have some sort of purpose. Like that one-eyed photographer. I don't know his name, but he wore a black patch over his left eye...a snarling pirate...and he snapped photos. He wore prescription eye-wear, lop-sided because of his patch *(and you'd think, any Lenscrafters salesman with an ounce of integrity, would give him half-off)... and his purpose... to snap photos...like the Beethoven of photography.
And maybe, I'll carry Louis Vuittons and wear stilettos. Maybe, I'll drive a Mercedes convertible and it'll smell new, like polished cow skin. Maybe I'll get my hair done, all pomped up and pretty. I'll eat carpaccio and super greens and caviar. I'll marry an older man, and he'll die 20 years later than expected. I'll be his nurse and when I'm a widow with our three adult children, I'll live alone in a big house. I'll wear St. John's pantsuits and be a member of a country club. I'll get older and I'll move into a highrise on Wilshire. I'll get older. I'll hire a "girl" to cook me breakfast and take me to the movies. We'll go to the theater and talk about the weather.
And those damn shrimp, crawling on your white plate. Writhing every which way and that. Their little pink bodies and their blinking black eyes. Can shrimp blink?
Poor little things. Snatched from its watery box, a scaled-to-fit ship anchored in the pebbles, a mermaid, a sunken treasure trunk, a couple of lobsters clawing at the glass, and the shrimp...just bobbing in the tide-less tank.
Little black eyes... soulless little insects. Except, they must have some sort of purpose. Like that one-eyed photographer. I don't know his name, but he wore a black patch over his left eye...a snarling pirate...and he snapped photos. He wore prescription eye-wear, lop-sided because of his patch *(and you'd think, any Lenscrafters salesman with an ounce of integrity, would give him half-off)... and his purpose... to snap photos...like the Beethoven of photography.
And maybe, I'll carry Louis Vuittons and wear stilettos. Maybe, I'll drive a Mercedes convertible and it'll smell new, like polished cow skin. Maybe I'll get my hair done, all pomped up and pretty. I'll eat carpaccio and super greens and caviar. I'll marry an older man, and he'll die 20 years later than expected. I'll be his nurse and when I'm a widow with our three adult children, I'll live alone in a big house. I'll wear St. John's pantsuits and be a member of a country club. I'll get older and I'll move into a highrise on Wilshire. I'll get older. I'll hire a "girl" to cook me breakfast and take me to the movies. We'll go to the theater and talk about the weather.
And those damn shrimp, crawling on your white plate. Writhing every which way and that. Their little pink bodies and their blinking black eyes. Can shrimp blink?
No comments:
Post a Comment