Somebody...

    I'm sitting at the counter of Veselka's eating a cup of borscht as two cooks bicker in front of me.  The only thing my ear picks up is the occasional "raaaaa."  One of the cooks stuffs his mouth with pickles, tiny pieces of green fly out of his mouth as he bellows.

    I take very slow and methodical bites of my soup, surveying the scene.  The skinnier cook has a wart on his head that doesn't sit well with my stomach... Chernobyl?  There is a very cute waitress that works here, she is not Ukrainian.  I listen to her complain about not having enough hours for the week.  She has to pay rent.  Her lipstick is bright red just like my soup.

    Today I read about Rothko.  Suicide.

    The waitress served me a few weeks ago.  Her face was hard to forget, she wore the same bright red lipstick.  It contrasted her dark, sunken, tired eyes. I came 3 am on a Sunday and had the same exact thing.  I take a second to contemplate where I'll go after this.

    Her complaining begins to annoy me; I regret sitting at the counter.

    There are two people on either side of me. The one on the right ordered a bowl of borscht.  To the left, a cup of borscht and a salad.  Perhaps they saw the waitress' lipstick too.  I scan the room to see if other patrons have also fell under the spell.

    The burley Ukrainian cook in front of me, who was eating pickles earlier, never stops moving.  He is exhausted and his face says it all.  He talks to himself in whispers and shakes his head slightly.  He is working the kitchen alone.

    I dig into my pocket and pull out a wad of crumpled one dollar bills.  I cut my credit card into six pieces today. I count the bills, eight, and there are no phantom fives or tens lurking about.  All feature the United States first president. One has a red stamp, "Ron Paul for President."

    The cook with the wart returns and my check arrives. Three dollars and seventy-nine cents.  I decide to leave five dollars after debating to leave six.  Before I leave I rescind my earlier decision.  Ron Paul had to go.

    What is it about...

    Couches... I am listening to Stone Temple Pilots Unplugged and acoustic.

    Close the 9 point gap.