Goth

Last night I went to a screening of a film at the Bowery Poetry Club on the Lower East Side on Manhattan. 

While waiting on the long line I checked out all the poets and artists hanging around the cafe tables and dusty tomes. Unique eye wear. Unkempt, patchouli-smelling hair. Deep discussions. The people who go to Tom Stoppard plays. 

My eyes met with a young, bored-looking goth girl sipping the last drop of espresso out of her demitasse as the grizzled poets around her discussed literature and Communism. Her eyes suddenly darted around the room, and in a private instant she pursed her grey lips, peered down, and simply spat into her demitasse. It wasn't a forceful spit. More like a thick, slow, white voluminous drip. She put the little cup down, excused herself, and left the Club. 

A few other artists took her space and ate their organic hemp seed cakes and drank their soy lattes with the saliva-filled demitasse on the table the whole time. Poetic.