The coffee is always too cold at Chomsky Coffee. 

This time, Mark doesn't request a fresh cup. 

It's not worth the head waitress's scowl, or the risk of spit accompanying its replacement.

Outside, the rain pelts sheets. Dismal. Wraith-like. Slated in abysmal gray. 

Two harsh alternating beams (one blue, the other red) highlight a trio arguing on the dreary boulevard corner.

Mark watches on-lookers come and go from the café's safety. Their tires spin slow at the morbid scene, pausing to give an ephemeral glance, like children passing museum exhibits. 

As the rain gains speed, their numbers  dilute.

The driver of the '97 Firebird continues arguing with the cops, now below a big, black umbrella. From his window seat, Mark can't hear words, but the man's violent hand gestures and facial expressions tell all. It was the pedestrian's fault. He walked in front of the car. 

Mark doesn't think he'll win. You don't cream a guy at 70 mph, then stroll without jail time. 

The driver finally breaks into sobs. 

An ambulance wails up. 

Paramedics pile out. 

Mark turns from the window, looks at his cold cup, and wishes it were warmer. A thin cream scum congeals the surface. He crinkles his nose. Gross.

"Shame," comments a man from the next table. With grayed alabaster skin and bruise-black sags under both eyes, his shabby attire tells a hopeless tale of impoverished addiction. They shouldn’t allow his ilk to loiter.

The pallid man raises his mug and the waitress pours until it brims with fresh-steaming black coffee. 

Mark watches enviously. 

The man gulps deep. The uneven prickles of a five o' clock shadow bob on his gullet. He smacks his lips together, satisfied, and the waitress refills the mug again. "Fella was a regular, wasn't he?"

"Yup.” She lifts the chilled cup from Mark's table and trays it without a downward glance. Her eyes go towards the window with a disdainful sniff.  "Maybe the coffee will finally be hot enough for the bastard in Hell."