That morning three monks took their stations at the end of the dock, lifted their bamboo fishing poles, and in unison, cast. Translucent threads shot into the air like spider silk: hanging, slowly drifting, describing a sensuous ballet of air current married to intent. And as one, the monks sat. Relaxed. Alert.
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And as one, the threads danced. Languidly.
The monks fished.
The monks smiled...also in unison.
But behind the glass of the huge window fronting "Mr. Yuens Buffet & Dim Sum!" Mr. Yuen frowned at the monks. Just as an art critic may deduce an artist's school by his choice of palette and technique, so could Mr. Yuen discern the spiritual affiliation of an individual by the way he sat or did not sit in meditation. Mr. Yuen was unsettled.
He could not, with mere cursory scrutiny, pinpoint the monk's schools, origins, much less their traditions. It was unsettling. It was irksome.
The corners of Mr. Yuen's thin lips drew down into crepey wrinkles. A curse escaped his breath in a streak of azure static discharge. He tugged fiercely at his sage's soul 'stache. He did not like the unexpected. He did not like irksome. He wanted life to continue evenly and predictably as it had decade-upon-decade-as it should.
He liked being a restauranteur...