The Soup

The Soup


         Stanley Vang sat alone in the back booth of the restaurant concentrating on his lunch. He sucked hot soup from his spoon slurp-slurp, slurp-slurp, then spooned up some more, never taking his eyes off the contents of the bowl.
         He pretended to be unaware of his surroundings, ignoring the limping waitress who gave him a dirty look each time she passed by. He just kept slurping his soup: slurp-slurp, slurp-slurp
         Stanley was small but sinewy, in his late forties, and wore his hair closely cropped. His skin was the shade of antique parchment. He allowed people to think that he was Chinese but was a Vietnamese refugee who had fled to the States after the fall of Saigon. Rumor had it, that he’d been an interrogation expert, using any tool or technique to get his prisoners to cooperate, which was probably true. But that was then. Now, he ran this restaurant and would never tolerate his employees being late for work.
         Again the angry waitress hobbled by, slowing only a little to examine her small toe floating in the bowl of Stanley's soup.