Unconditional Love

That was when they stopped. Only for a millisecond. Gav threw his barely begun pasta in the bin because the orders were coming in too quickly - the service was lacking if it only took 30 seconds for the waiter to seat them and take their order. And they all chatter amongst themselves and agree that I won't be able to last long under the pressure. Ha! There's a challenge. I do give them that they've seen me breakdown to tears out the door; also, but once, slamming plates on the pass then disappearing in a haze of frustration. Surely these outbursts happen on occasion to anyone in this fiery kitchen?

. . .
Any woman in her correct mindful emotion would search out the source of their children's father's absence. Especially with it being on particular nights after particularly 'brutal' days. It eventually came to be described as war rather than work. Whenever I helped out it seemed more like concentrated and speed cooking. There were no flags or horses; no east side versus west side; no aggressive behaviour (barre that of the head chef) only responses to antagonising demands.
Chef's behaviour is what led the lady to hide behind shadows and drive quietly up to park close-by the activity. It was the tradition, for him. Every Saturday night after a few beers (and shots) to wind down after 'war', an easy and delicious takeaway dinner from the Malaysian resturant in the top artery of the city. Surrounded by cabarets and strip clubs, street hookers and drug stalls, Chef waited on the power box, smoking one cigarette after another until the spicy food was packaged and ready to take away.

Tonight a deviant will stalk the streets, picking up whichever figure willingly accommodates the desperate wide eyes. In need of a simple satisfaction, yearning to share his pain. Pleading to be taken away from everyday - back to his own reality of shadows and games. He lurks by deathly corners for the dark and long haired He-Girl, fidgetting with 'her' toes turned in and her skirt hitched well above her shin. She knows him, glad to see that he's well, settled down when she's in. The engine idles while they discuss which house to visit that hasn't gone bust. She'll take him there again, but know, again that he will have to wait. "Patience doesn't hold on me" he murmurs with anger, deep in He. To this 'She' turns and tells him straight "You know exactly why you have to wait. Stop stressing, it's coming, I'll get it don't worry. You're always so edgy after work with the Rope".
At last the escape of the life that He lives: a pipe that's filled up with some awful strong Niz. In a while He'll offer 'her' some for a wiz. Everytime She says take it away, "that's not enough for me, you know I don't just play". A friendly reminder that people do give, 'though not enough of them live in the life that I live'. Taken safe haven, leaving He-Girl at her post, driving to a place ok to become toast...

Sleeping without dreams because of wakeful nights, the brain so tired that nothing will frighten it. Not even the dog who tagged along from the street to the home with manners entailed. No command to check before crossing the street, no pulling ahead on the invisible lead. Side by side walking home with the dalmatian down the road and her 'mother' and 'brother' training her at each road. 'Puppy' was as big as the dalmation with the spots, but black as coal and energetic like a foal.
Homeward bound to the warmth of the soft carpeted house, where once again Father not here left us with a downward glance. Puppy raced off through the house then came back in bounds when I called him to my boy's room that we were to surround to play ball with a ball that we found out on the ground. He sat. He waited. He jumped to catch the ball. Up high and down the hall, and in his mouth each time went this ball. Without hesitation he returned it once it was caught, not too slobbered clearly eager for another turn. Even little Jade had a little turn with aid: 'Puppy sit, good boy, Puppy catch, good boy, bring it back, good boy' and a pat.
The dog showed the boy that not all dogs are fearsome - like how Grandmama told him as they passed them on the street (at a distance, or in the park, or at the beach) she kept him away from every dog, warning of the threat of defeat. She was my Mother and she told me every time when I was young and saw a cat to keep myself in line. Each time I loved them all too much so I held them without fear, and got scratched up each time I loved a cat more than they desired. Still I love, not only cats, but every creature on this planet, and others I'm sure if we could find who's living out there. We can share the space around us, if we watch for one another and consistently pull together to meliorate our worlds; but...
When Father Dear arrived at the window with a smile and knock, the dog let loose vocally, guarding the door wild and set on defending his newfound home. The dog bit at Father Dear as he opened the door to return to his home. The order was clear - the dog had to go.
Two views opposing, one outlook supporting the other's the same:
Scenario 1) the dog searched the house and knew it was us, alone and so weak against he who's so black. He would kill the Mum first, leave her while he ate the child who had waited while his mother was mauled then left making no noise. His eyes would glaze over as he looked at the child, helpless and scared of the beast with no smile. The boy thought of war He had seen in his book - an encyclopedia cherished during every look - something He never would be part of, nor His son, or His son as the bloodline ends here. Food for a week.
Scenario 2) the dog barks at each face outside the door, but protects fiercely the few on His side of the door. Tough training to teach dog that not everyone's a threat to the family who adopted him - a new member of the pack. What a score! He's a lovely playful young pup, with energy equivalent to that of our children. Soft when He rumbles, strong when He swims into shore, saving the babe on his back from drowning. Resisting the image His breed has gained His blood family, He presented himself with courage and strength directed toward an amicable cause. The media released a statement updating the standard of dog training required for all breeds, with dogs observed during the training program to have aggressive tendencies being called back to attend a follow up course which would determine whether the dog would be removed from society or could continue living in it's home with close supervision and further regular training.
No more dog attacks.

...
The kitchen was small and hot with only half a hot plate, a medium salamander and only three functioning burners. The cold larder person had a bench the size of Her wooden chopping board doubled over. One third of the bench space consumed by Her wooden chopping board, another third occupied by a large circular slicer and the other free for plating the delectables She managed to create within Her limited space. At the next bench along remained the dishwasher (commonly known as dish pig) day after day leaning into the deep sink, feet planted flatly on the same spot hour after hour. Dish pigs always complained of a sore back and shoulders. Hidden in the corner, away from human interaction muddled the baker. Slow and delicate, exaggerated and inconspicuous. Leisurely producing a short list of sweets, not interested in helping Chef during busy spells, filling in time filling mini pastry cups with a drop of lemon honey topped with fluffy meringue, or like. The part-time weekend kitchen all rounder had only one hour from the time she arrived to the start of the non-stop day that was the norm, to make two batches of savory scones and piece together and present elegantly the puzzle of ingredients listed on a note on the wall from Baker.

In the weekends the full time waiters were always working, taking their days off during the week. They had to be on site during the three overrun days to take the heat off the owners - those two brothers would likely damage each other physically had each of their outbursts been away from their public's eyes. The youngest outwardly emotional with a habit of physical outlet, the eldest being entertaining with his crafty psychological ingenious will happily confine himself to his cave at each day's end, alone. The silly little waitress (who believed she was part of an unbreakable trilogy) recognised her loneliness and yearned for a feeling of acceptance, oblivious to the prediction that this lonesome existence never would alter, but rather eventually become accepted as a state of contentment in the knowledge that She is She.

*Songwriter. This is a title of a person who is paid to write songs for people with musical talent to perform in front of huge audiences or record for millions of untalented people to hear. Hmmmm. If a pop song with a subject and title provided was expected on Friday and the day the task is set is Monday, would the songwriter create well suited and catchy lyrics and a melody to match on time? I believe I would.*

Absent of any means of ongoing companionship, the lonesome stranger touches so many hearts during their journey, unwittingly leaving admirers in awe of the selflessly selfish goodwill cast upon every untied shoelace, every unworthy plea, every intricate desire, every afflictive saviour. Glowing through lifetimes serving worthy or not, the bottom of the heap is qualified if they understand it or not. Sometimes forgotten, sometimes not, wait your turn holy spirit you either want it or not. Death may come of us suddenly with glee, prancing in spirals of colouful sound. Spectacular the moment He's gone secretly. No-one to hear His final broadcast honest and boldly admitting His sins of loving somebody greater than Him. The body, the spirit, the mind and the soul held far more virtues than You'll ever know.