The lip of the rug curls beneath their shoulder pads. Papers glued to their eyes, a crooked lamp is a magnet. The argument ensues, the property is scattered. No connections yet. No lead in the plaster, no bubbles in the thinning beer.
Evidence is a hieroglyph in a pool of melted wax.
Shadows dance across their hands, and somewhere, in some other shade, a radio sputters. The flute . Decisions come in pairs. The paper sandwich bag drips mustard from its cracks, all over the blotter, and a little on the rug. Some men think on their feet, others in a stuffed patent leather arm chair, behind the windows and the lace.