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5 “Louie’s: Home of the Veggie Omelet” on the cook’s t-shirt Louie’s at eleven, waiting for Mona Lisa. The cook saws a frozen muffin in two and sticks it in the toaster. I ask for some tea and squeeze the bag. The place fills up, it’s getting noisy. Mona Lisa must have forgotten. Arms wave along the counter, stories warm, inflate. The cook moves faster, beats eggs with a fork. Chamomile tea, hot down my throat. I open in two halves, like the waffle iron— head to toe, along a cleft parallel to my nose, an altarpiece carving of God the Father, that creaks open on its medieval hinges to the Mary and baby nesting inside. Her forehead is grave, Flemish. She is handing the baby the round ball of the world. I go ahead and order: veggie omelet, toast with no butter, refill, 6 same tea bag. The gold leaf of the ball is dimmed with age, Mary’s blue gone to patches of indigo and wormriddled wood. I’m going to eat alone: She’s forgotten, I’m sure of it. The griddle goes yellow with my egg. The gold ball’s not the sun, not the earth—the baby cracks it with one hand. A yellow blanket wraps bean sprouts, bell pepper, chopped zucchini, celery, red cabbage, onion. ...

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