selling out

while i was sipping
a hot cup of java at
my local coffee shop
the other day a woman
approached me speaking
with a russian accent.
she had long black
hair and a pair of red
lips like ruby slippers.
a small tattoo of
a bear was on her left
hand. i want you to
work for us, she
whispered while
sipping her extra hot
decaf skinny soy vanilla
latte. the foam
gave her a not too
sinister mustache.
i'm busy, i told her,
painting houses. nyet.
go away. but hear me out,
she said, looking furtively
about the room,
a half a dozen strollers
and moms were in line
ordering donuts and
frappuccinos. she handed
a toddler his binky when
it fell out of the pink
pout of his drooling
mouth and rolled
towards us. i can
make you rich, she said.
i can give you more money
than you could ever make
painting houses. i stopped
reading the paper, took
a sip of my grande
americano, and said. how
much are we talking here?
millions, she said,
arching her black eyebrows
in rapid succession.
i stared at my paint speckled
sneakers and my legs
scratched from thorns
and swollen from bee bites.
there was a large hunk of
dried acrylic caulk on one
knee. i took another sip
of my drink, then said, okay.
what do i need to do.
i'm in. she smiled
and touched my hand.
all in good time, she said.
all in good time, comrade,
we will contact you soon.
sweet, i told her. sweet.