Tolstoy stumbles up to the counter, clutching a ragged, grey blanket around his shoulders. “Is it cold in here?” he stammers. “I feel like it’s cold in here.” The barista, too, is shivering. He offers Tolstoy a small cup of hot coffee. Snow drifts into the shop from the street. The barista…
Fitzgerald goes up to the counter and orders a grande coffee black. He adds cream and sugar, but when he drinks it, it tastes more bitter than he expected. He drinks it all anyway.