#37

The door swings open and in comes a woman tapping a long stick on the hard floor, tap, tap, tap, led by a black man with creased face and grey hair. He closes the door behind them but the cold has come inside anyways and he leads her to a square table. From a pocket unseen he conjures a small radio and flips it on, kshhhhhh, his thumb rolling the tuner as a voice walks forward from the static into clarity. His thumb rolls again, the volume up, and he sets the radio down in front of the lady, her head faced forward, seated stiffly with stick at her side. People glance at the disturbance of radio chatter that snaps the silence in the room as he gets up to retrieve their coffee. He sits beside her as they sip steaming coffee, listening. Patrons put aside their grievances just this once.