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feeling exhausted.
    He yawned several times.
    These aren’t the old days anymore.
    He turned south off Metropolitan onto Driggs Avenue, following the intoxicating aroma of coffee to a red-brick building housing Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee, a coffee shop he hadn’t been to since he was a child. Across the street, a construction site sign boasted: “Coming Soon: La Estrella . ”
    Ah. La Estrella. The Hispanic Starbucks. Why’d they pick this block where there’s a landmark coffee shop across the street? The leeches.
    He read the sign on the door: “Cash only.”
    Old school. I like that.
    He dug into his pockets and found a crumpled five-dollar bill.
    Here’s hoping an old-school coffee shop has old-school prices.

Chapter 3
    T hough it was only a little after six AM, there were already two people in line. Matthew sneaked to the front and snatched a simple paper menu from the top of the glass case before returning to the back of the line. Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee served breakfast, not brunch, offering eggs, waffles, toast, pancakes, and sausage, all at reasonable prices, and all made-to-order. The glass case and counter forming an L on the right side of the shop boasted croissants for less than three bucks, pastries and turnovers in every fruit flavor, cupcakes, bagels, muffins, and cookies with more chips and nuts than dough. As he basked in an agreeable collision of scents and aromas, he read the largest sign on the wall behind the counter:

    I AM NOT A BARISTA.
    I BREW AND POUR COFFEE.

    Only a few kinds of coffee were listed on a dusty chalkboard hanging over the register: Jamaica Mountain Blue, House Blend, and Breakfast Brew. Matthew checked the menu for prices. I can actually afford a large cup and something sweet.
    Floor-to-ceiling windows at the front for people-watching, lots of small, square wooden tables and matching chairs, three lights dangling from a wood-beamed ceiling, black and white checkerboard pattern on the floor, five spacious booths covered in brown vinyl, lighted sconces on the walls, mostly black and white pictures of old Williamsburg spaced around the shop— this place has class and ambience. And it’s so quiet. No music, indie or otherwise. He smiled at the old-fashioned sugar dispensers on the tables.
    â€œHappy National Freedom Day.”
    Matthew looked at the black woman behind the counter. “It’s not Groundhog Day?”
    â€œThat’s tomorrow,” she said with a smile. “I’ll bet we get six more weeks of winter.”
    She has a nice smile. “I hope not.”
    â€œSo do I,” she said. “What can I get for you?”
    As Matthew scanned the sweets in the glass case, he also scanned the only worker at Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee. She was dark brown and wore no makeup or jewelry; her eyebrows were somewhat bushy, her dark black hair pulled back. “There are so many choices,” he said. Squatting, he looked past a row of turnovers to her nicely proportioned, curvy lower body. He stood and took in her bright smile, large brown eyes, medium-length hair, cute ears, snug jeans, and snugger black sweater under a crisp white apron.
    Matthew smiled. “There are too many choices.”
    â€œLate night?”
    She has awesome eyes, a mixture of dark and light brown. “Does it show?”
    â€œA little. Your . . .” She patted her hair.
    â€œI’m having a bad hair morning, huh?”
    She smiled.
    He squinted at the chalkboard. “What’s in your house blend?”
    â€œIt’s a secret family recipe.”
    Matthew leaned on the counter. “I won’t tell.”
    The woman stepped closer and whispered, “Brazilian, Colombian, and Sumatran dark coffees with a hint of cinnamon and some other special ingredients.”
    She’s has just described herself. Try not to stare too long at her cinnamon lips. How does the brown skin around her lips