Rohrbach Cafe

ROHRBACH CAFE Intimacy. A place of shared warmth, an atmosphere of muted shadows and candlelight, where emotions, profoundly sincere, softly glow, flare, then wane until, fully consumed, they are dimmed and gentled by intrinsic breezes of serenity. A cafe of quiet murmers, hushed revelations among tables close, but afar, where evening lit trivialities in crystal glasses are served, savored, and emptied, only to be ordered again. And with each new serving history is repeated in casually spoken laments, unchronicled for want of an historian skilled in seeing the future through past events. Four chairs, caned and porous (as truth is known to be) surround each pedestaled table, marbled white with veins of black, ratifying the Utopian lie of right and wrong and obscuring the reality of doubtful tones of hazy gray. A small red rose in a faded china vase fragrantly masks the stalesmoke air with wisps of scented empathy and care, a centerpiece that freshens the soul with aromas of love, and sweetens the heart's musty despair. While ashtrays, chipped and yellowed, are emptied once in a while, as smoldering issues are cleared for new ones to repeat themselves. A subtle lamp, veneered with dust and dispassionately suspended from the ceiling above, dimly outlines illuminated mysteries and cloaks in shadow dark, unharkened actualities. And music, soft, reflective, fills the room with flowing undertones composed to orchestrate separate and dischordant souls, point, counterpoint, into a sentient, symphonic whole. * * * * * * * * * * * * REFRAIN * * * * * * * * * * Problems solved and griefs struck down in pleasant comraderie, tranquil smiles from anxious frowns are formed in the Rohrbach Cafe. But why are the tables empty, why are the chairs unfilled? Why are soulful fantasies, yet unborn, mercilessly killed?