Fire burns like his verve. He dances and stirs the peanuts in a cast iron pan with a pair of wooden spatulas. His heart is in sync with the wedding song that he plays. The rhythmic movements of his limbs entice the Sunday crowd on the shore. A musical parching of peanuts. Even the checking of the doneness is through the dance. His disheveled shirt and lungi flutter in the moonlit wind. No matter how scuzzy or clumsy, performance produces pleasure. The money that swells his pocket or the presence of his lady, what transforms his body? There are fireflies in his sunken eyes. Perhaps some chemical drug is the riboflavin to his soul. Melding passion with profession is a precious art of life.