The man and I spot it at the same time from across the clutter stuffed room.
A bargain hunter has just snatched up a floor length table cloth, revealing the graceful cherry wood table underneath. The swirling red linen, like a pennant, summons us to do battle.
From opposite directions the grimy man and I hurry to the table. We circle it warily, searching for a price tag. First person to peel off the masking tape price tag wins the prize.
“Nice table,” he says. “Don’t find these half rounds often.”
“It’s called a demilune, translated half moon,” I say. I assume from his battered logging company ball cap and sawdust stained denims he doesn’t know French.
“Half round. Demilunes for girls,” he says.
“Then maybe this demilune should go live with a girl,” I bat my eyelashes and peer under the table. Still can’t find the tag.
He shifts a chair away from his side of the table and picks up the grass hula skirt that was draped over it.
I spot the tag where the chair had concealed it. “I used to have one of those skirts. I can do the Tahitian hula,” I demonstrate with a hip shimmy, trying to divert his attention from the tag.
“Ha!” he says and grabs the tag before I can reach over for it. “Nice cherry wood; hard to get these days. Nice hip action by the way,” he looks down at the tag, “Three hundred dollars!”
He hands me the tag, “Demilune it is.”
“I can’t afford that, I guess it’s just a half round.” I say and smooth the tag back on.
“I’m going to take my grass skirt and go.” He slings the skirt over his shoulder, looks back at me with a wink and flounces away, bony hips swaying, humming a passable rendition of Lovely Hula Hands.