Sushi Bar Prophet

She stops in the Woodlands on the way down, despite a an uneasiness about peripheral Houston and it’s snooty burbs.

The only brown people here are on the clock,she thinks as she navigates through an uneasy sea of pink and white faces.

She orders takeout at a sushi bar and sees a distinguished looking man in his middle years. He don’t look so Texan, she makes a snap decision to chat.

Probably ill-advised.

He is Flemish, an oil industry someone and she asks him obvious questions about mud engineering.

Yes, he says, it is happening. This is the next big boom. It is already here.

Good news for selling an old house, surely. You would think. But she still remembers the wreckage of the last boom and the bust that came with it.

She thanks the man for permitting her intrusion. Tells him she liked Belgium once a long time ago.

And pays the harried waiter for the brown bag full of raw fish wrapped in seaweed. All non-native to the Woodlands.

Never capitalize the The, it only encourages the white folk.

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