The place was destroyed.
Where we danced and drank, discussed love and stupidity while falling against the sticky fur lined walls, against the out of place pinball machine into the streets craving the sweet breeze while watching Table mountain lit by twin suns, just stand there. Daring us to do something.
Then we stopped accepting the dare.
Divesting from The Corner House was not a hard thing to do.
Life pressures and #adulting forced me to put away childish notions of dancing in a crowded dark room to a syncopated rhythm, the killer baseline and the frenetic drums of really good dance, rock, punk, kitchen sink music. (Lest we not forget the 1am playing of Closer, that was a signal to the creatures of the night that you needed to clear the dance floor because all the couples were going to get.....close..ER.)
I put the Corner House away and refused the Falafel.
I thought I was Falafel immune but the music is a carrier of the Falafel infection and I succumbed to the need to know if the Corner House still stood, could I go back and see?
Was there a Falafel for me? No there wasn't.
Nothing left except the echoes of music.
The Corner House.
They had a really great Falafel stand.