Ten degrees whirls eddies of shivery air over the black-and-white tile floor, curling around everybody’s ankles, mirroring the steam curling from the tops of lattes. A dozen years gone and the same green painting of the old man smiling down at us, same bearded barista serving up banter, same Brian, same John. Under the old man old men gather at their usual table with biographies and newspapers, talking through the times. The giveaway shelf: thrillers, Twilight, Arthur C. Clarke, Retire Rich! and Pamuk’s Snow. Heat climbs down the ceramic mug of my coffee-for-here. Voices fly to the ceiling. Stay warm.