The bell rings at the door of the coffee shop and a man enters, as if called forth. The shop is otherwise empty. The man, tall, bearded, middle-aged, wears thick glasses, an old flannel and worn jeans. His eyes are heavy, he appears tentative.
“They said down the street I could come here for a black coffee?” he asks politely at the shop counter.
“Sure you can,” the girl behind the register says. “No creme or sugar?”