Bar Luzia. I’ve been visiting that place for over two years now. I imagine it as filled with floaty, cobweb-like tendrils of memory, visible only to me, that trace all over the mismatched furniture, the floor, the walls and the tables with their pretty flowers and candles. In the smokey back room there is a small step ladder that leads up into a black-walled cubby space. I hadn’t seen it before. On the evening of New Year’s day we sat in that dimly-lit space and talked for hours. More tendrils formed.