The wind slicing down the dark street is cold enough to freeze your lungs and sharp enough to cut the breath from your throat.
The burners are on under the flat-iron stove and coffee is beginning to drip into the bulbous Bunn pots at each of the three stations. In a minute I will pour myself a cup but for now I am content to sit in the dark and wait for things to warm up.
The cafe won't open for another hour. It says so right on the sign. If I turn on a light customers will pull on the doorhandle and peck their noses against the cold glass until I open up and let them in.
Once they are in I have to wait on them and that's not my job. My job is to get the hash browns cut, the bacon and sausage fried up and the biscuits baked. I can do all of that in an hour, no problem, if I don't have to be running up front pouring coffee and flapping jaws with someone who, by all rights, should be home in bed sleeping.
No, best to leave the lights off. Mary can turn them on when she comes in if she wants. Or, she can wait till opening time.
From the way my breath is steaming you might think I was sitting here smoking. Gave that up years ago. Nasty habit, besides, city don't allow smoking indoors anymore. So, it ain't smoke, it's just cold. Too cold to be peeling potatoes.
In a few minutes the kitchen will be warm enough to start. Right now, I'll just wrap my hands around a hot mug of coffee and watch the traffic light change from green to yellow to red, and the crazy river of leaves and discards run like water before the wind.
The man passing in front of the window startles me. His black overcoat and hat almost invisible in the dark.
Even if he turns his head and looks, he won't see me; he will only see himself reflected in the cafe's dark windows.
I watch him as he walks to the corner and stops.
The walk signal is red but even from where I am sitting you can see that there are no cars coming from any direction.
The man waits a moment before taking an ungloved hand from his pocket and pressing the button to cross Pennsylvania Ave.
I can see the icy wind push at the hem of his overcoat and tug at his collar while he stands, unmoving, hands in pockets, waiting for the light to change.
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