Concerning the Restaurant

  Go here. Do this. Like the instructions on a book of matches. Close cover before striking, etcetera, the same taut phrases reminiscent of an ancient Chinese philosopher. The lack of proper grammar only added to the feel, he supposed.
  The address Taylor had followed led to a small Thai restaurant, the sort of side-street diner that offered only a bar-like counter for seating and loquacious immigrants serving in dirty white aprons and paper hats. He entered by the side entrance. The building had a megrim scent of burning coriander, filling his nostrils like a miasma and increasing the dull pain in his skull. His only hope lay in being able to exit quickly.
  He noticed one wall was adorned with photographs, cheap five-by-nine black and whites of celebrities, mostly small time and inconsequential. Each had officiated their likeness with illegible scars of black marker. There was a macabre unreality to the wall, like something not filling decorative space aesthetically but though destiny, as though there were a universal rule toward small oriental restaurants and where the photographs should go. Spatial resonance. It took a few minutes before he realized he was staring at it.
  By that time, someone was shouting at him in what sounded like a high-pitched scream punctuated by tongue rolls. Taylor shook his head slowly, lackluster expression on his face. The cook’s lips moved more deliberately, the thick accent pooling with dense background noise and the acerbic pain filling Taylor’s brain. Somehow it filtered out that he was demanding either identity or exit.
  Taylor reached into his coat and withdrew the envelope. He quoted, “ ‘My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the winds are never weary. My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, but hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, and the days are dark and dreary.’ ”
  He hated this part in the game. Longfellow. Eric thought it was clever, instituting a view of what he obviously considered an artistic side into a professional necessity. He had briefed Taylor on the importance well, and every letter after included a quote of classic poetry. Taylor himself thought it was garish, but never said so, just recited reluctantly. He never felt it was his place to protest.
  The cook looked at him skeptically for a fraction of a moment, then spoke. Taylor shook his head again with incomprehension. The cool leaned closer, the smell of curry and ginger almost visible. It stung Taylor’s nose as he tried to keep his eyes from watering.
  Something about dice, with the universal sign for “you know.” Well, if he had them, good for him. Hope his mother was proud. No, of course he didn’t know. But the man was now pointing to a stack of noodle boxes, so Taylor relocated. He hadn’t sat for very long before the cook returned, bequeathing a white paper doggie bag, nodded curtly and disappeared.