The temperatures have plummeted in eastern Texas. We stand on a balcony overlooking Market Square at the oldest bar in the city, La Carafe, where the wine is stale and wax plumes across the wall and where the customers are wilted at small tables, on a first date, or alone. Below a trombone funk band plays to a small, loyal audience. Our friends — we always see friends at shows — lead the second line withย handkerchiefs and umbrellas tracing a circle around the lawn. ย The dinner ended strangely, we say. No speeches. And cake left uneaten and concern over a baseball score and a woman in tears.

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