There's a limited repertoire of behaviors and postures in coffee shops. I yearn for someone to come in with a set of bagpipes or to break out in a frenzy of nude tap-dancing, but no. People come charging up to the door all bubbly and idiosyncratic, and then when they step inside, a pall descends over them, as if they had entered a church or the bailiwick of a strict librarian, one with glasses on a chain and sensible shoes and a white blouse buttoned up to the neck, secured by an antique brooch given to her by her mother, a repressed martinette who took out her disappointment in life on her daughter, and who drove her husband to alcoholism, which led him to embezzle funds from the bank where he worked as a loan officer, funds which he took to Atlantic City to squander on gambling and hookers, and when he was found asleep in a parked car with blood and vomit on his shirtfront he was arrested and, while in jail, hanged himself with his necktie. Which may explain why everyone in the coffeeshop seems quiet and furtive today.