Children cross the road, ones wearing red wool hats that go past their eyebrows. The snow piles on their tiny heads. The flesh of their hands turn bright pink from touching the snow. The children cannot help touching the snow, there is no self control in the youth, only natural impulse to beauty.

The sound of slush being tossed by car tires is muffled behind this large window, but it creates an alluring symphony. It reminds me of when I leave the television on when I sleep or reading to the hum of a space-heater. Silence is a man's greatest fear, the crushing of slush is his remedy in cold weather.

The sun is slowly setting, there will only be an hour until it has fallen behind the earth's rocky curtain. When it returns it will be tomorrow. It will be is Valentine's Day. It haunts me.

There is something to be said about any holiday that occurs in the center of the coldest month of the year. Particularly strange is that it is a holiday about love.

I bend my elbow on the counter and bite the skin above my knuckles as I write this. My glasses hurt the bridge of my nose and the smudge my finger left on the right lens is giving me a headache. I'm not used to wearing glasses, not yet. They weigh down my ears and disorient me. I can't talk when I have them on.

My coffee has gone cold and I really need to piss. But, I plan on leaving the café soon, so I choose not to use the restroom.

I look down at the bright cover of Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, which I have never read and probably never will read. I came here to find a job, not to read. I came here to find a job, not to write. I came here to find a job.