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In the summertime they walked into my bar and I asked, "How are you guys?"
"Good," said the other.
They took their seats on one side of the square bar. They already had drinks in their plastic cups, one tall and clear, one short and red, the ice melted in both. They could have been sisters, the one on the left clearly older. They did not look at me. They were silent and they looked at each other. Then there were tears and the younger said to the older, "Here is my shoulder. Do you want a shoulder to cry on?" She did. She laid her hair and then her face on the other's shoulder. And there was nothing in the entire bar but the pieces of two people. Two heads and a shoulder. One head hidden in the darkness of a shoulder. One head half lit, the face straight forward facing me, but the eyes looking out of the darkness inside into the brightening graying mourning light of the outside framed in the open doorway, filtered gently in the space between the doorway and themselves, their darkness, their pieces, the darkness of the inside that lay on them who were framed by the gray-brown brick of the pub's side wall. And the pieces were quiet. They held together, unflinching, moving only with the whispering fluidity of a body's breath, of two bodies' breath. Three pieces breathing the small sad light of a New Orleans summer day's mourning.