To the corner table, through the smoke and dust in the air, melodious mandolin waves push to drums clogged with thought. Like a forgotten box stuffed in the upper layer of a house and rediscovered by a new generation, memories escape from times adhesive closures and reveal themselves anew.
Hanging from the players neck, a string of imperfect pearls, set to the tune of the patrons black diamond ears. Meeting in the center, they dance with refined grace and skill, turning circles into figure eights while mouthing crescents through saline raindrops.
Lead paint chips from the wooden archways that nearly divide now from then and soon, leaving flakes easily mistaken for the purity of freshly fallen snow on the heads and shoulders of any who attempt to meander through these impassable, but impossible to ignore, portals.
Our dancers weather the mandarin mandolin madness, unthwarted by the charming notions of what lies beyond either passage, contented completely to swim in the undercurrent of their unusual embrace.