One would never know a war is raging half a world away. In here, it�s peaceful. Furious and impassioned guitar riffs and Converse stomping and the sound of milk steaming fill the room. I can feel the pulse of the songs in my chest and in my hands through my coffee cup. I look over at you every once in a while � you�re sitting back against the window, a picture of contentment. Your big hands beat out rhythms on your thighs when they aren�t busy holding your coffee. I can�t help but grin.

You stretch over the table and say something I can�t quite hear over the music. I lean forward, trying to catch the words, but they escape me nevertheless. You repeat it, commenting on the current musician, and how he looks like a hippie who never quite recovered from smoking too much pot. I laugh and nod in agreement. Your coffee breath brushes against my cheek like a whisper of poetry, then fades as you turn back to the music.

---

Outside the little coffee house, dusk is falling and filling the air with grey. Lights turn on in Main Street apartments while the boutiques below them close. Inside the coffee house, light and guitar music reign. Middle-aged bohemians get up and deliver the rock, singing lyrics written by Neil Diamond and The Beatles and themselves. Cords, tables and echoes of light clutter the floor.

A girl at a high table by the window sips a latte. She wore lipstick tonight for once, and it stains the pristine white lid on the cup a vague pink. Her flip-flops dangle from prettily painted toes.

The tall boy across from her is captured by the music. A relaxed smile rests upon his face, lowering slightly as he sips his large coffee but quickly reasserted. He leans across the table towards the girl to say something. She leans in, too, and upon hearing his comment smiles and nods emphatically.

Outside, the sky dissolves to black.

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