(Written on December 10, 2012)
The lone dimmed chandelier shone in the coffee shop with wooden floors and wooden walls. Two centuries old, maybe more, maybe less. Music radiated from a male figure with a guitar in his lap from the stage, and a drunkard sat on the stage with one leg crossed over the other, recalling to us from the pit of his heart stories about the ocean and Gina’s backyard and his dark days. Everyone in the cafe wore coats and hats. Hand shakes were exchanged, some smelling of alcohol and others of espresso. We spoke of stealing sweatshirts and “waiting for the storm to pass” as we closed the shop; the smiles and laughter had created a warm atmosphere within a small shop in a cold-hearted downtown.